


A Spark of Color

by Chalybeous (Chalybeousite)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 249,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalybeousite/pseuds/Chalybeous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His existence had been a world of white and black, right and wrong, him and everyone else.  Until he met her.  Not only was she a riot of color in his drab life, but she showed him there were shades of gray between his black and white.  And perhaps, if he dared, he might find out that not only could he dream, he could live. Just a romping frolic between a Female OC and Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Kitten

**Author's Note:**

> A little explanation. This is a Dragon Age 2 fanfic, and will take place generally over the course of that game. I will allude to certain quests, and maybe write in one or two if they are relevant to my OC’s story. However, my OC, Hrodwynn, is not Hawke (did you see that one coming? I didn’t. Wish someone would’ve told me…). She has her own life, her own background, and her own troubles. And Fenris gets caught up in them ;D

Fenris was leaning against the side of the building, one leg cocked, the foot planted flatly against the rough stone. His arms were crossed, but that in no way meant he wasn’t ready to fight, to attack or defend himself. Not that he had to do either at the moment, the shadows concealing all but his white hair, and even that looked gray in the black night.

His face was cast downward, but his eyes were lifted up, flickering side to side beneath his black eyebrows, taking in every passerby through his unruly bangs. He watched the people, mostly elves here in the Lowtown Alienage, bustle past his little nook after performing their last-minute business for the day, more intent on getting home than on seeing the danger lurking in the shadows. And there was danger—there was always danger—besides him. There was another hunter prowling the streets.

He turned his head towards a shadow of movement, but it was only a banner fluttering in the breeze. His movement caused a persistent, nagging twinge to come to the forefront of his thoughts. It was a rare occurrence, as agony had been his only, constant companion for… well, for as long as he could remember. He carefully rolled his shoulder, still sore after he had landed funny on it while diving through an open window. It had been a few days ago, and most of the other hurts from that night were gone, but that one ache remained.

As did that one hunter captain.

He had gotten word that there was information regarding his past, sealed in a cargo chest hidden away here in the Alienage. It was obviously a trap, so he had hired a dwarf to find someone suitable to spring the trap. So far, Anso hadn’t been able to find anyone foolish enough, or capable enough, to cause a distraction for the hunters, and time was running out. Fenris could not hide forever, nor did he want to—he wanted it over!

But could it ever be over for a former slave?

A gentle rain began to fall, more like a heavy mist or fog rolling in off the sea. It sank into the streets, saturating the air, softening the ground into mud, cooling the spring night into a brief flashback of winter. Perfect, he thought to himself, as the misting rain obscured even more of his surroundings. It may conceal the hunter from his eyes, but it also concealed him from the hunter. All that could be made out was movement, brief and indistinct, caught in the golden halos around the guttering torches.

And anyone who moved, would either be the hunter captain and his men, or those hired to be the distraction. Fenris would not move, waiting and biding his time until after the trap was sprung, after the hunters were engaged. Then he would turn the tables and kill the hunters. Until then, he would wait, silent as a shadow, for as surely as he was watching…

…so was the hunter.

* * *

She stood in front of the dwarf, a smile on her lips as she batted her bright green eyes, a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. “I heard you got a big job, big guy.” The mist that had been falling all evening tapered off as midnight approached, and she was glad to be able to lower her hood and let the breeze ruffle her thick, dark red hair. She brushed a lock back behind an ear, trying to look coy. “And that it involves a Siggerdson.”

The dwarf rolled his eyes and sighed, “Of course, Hrodwynn, that would interest you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and said flatly, “No.”

“No?” she repeated with mock indignation. “Ah, come on, Anso, you know you’re gonna give me the job. Who else do you know can handle a lock like that?” She picked up some miscellaneous item off his counter and began fingering it. It was a small box full of gears and cogs, with a crank on the side that wound a spring.

He plucked the gizmo from her and set it back down, fearful that she’d have the item in pieces inside of ten seconds. Then he put his heavy hand on her chest and shoved her back, gently. He did like the girl, after all, which is why he couldn’t give her the contract. “I know you can handle the lock, sweetie, but you can’t handle the haul.”

A smattering of laughter erupted behind her, and was just as quickly stifled. She turned to see three men approaching, specifically, two human men and a dwarf man. Her eyes narrowed and one hand strayed towards her hip, conveniently near a dagger at the small of her back. The dwarf looked harmless enough, bare cheeked and smiling, which instantly put her on guard; besides, he looked like he had been the one who laughed. At her.

The two humans, well, they were neatly dressed, for Lowtown, anyway. One wore the standard issue of some sort of soldier, sleeveless padded leather tunic and bracers. He had a youthful face, strong and eager to prove himself, which struck a resonating chord within her. The other was older, similar in coloring, wearing scarlet attire a little too rich and well kept for Lowtown. His black hair was mussed, windblown, but artfully so—considering his beard was meticulously groomed, a stark contrast to the mess. All were armed, the dwarf with a crossbow, the younger human with a two-handed greatsword, and the older with a long staff that ended in a wicked-looking mace.

“Something amuses you?” she asked, eyeing all three with as much menace as she could muster.

The older human scoffed, rolling his eyes and almost—almost!—yawning. “We’re not here to talk with you, little girl. We’re here to talk with Anso.”

“What can I help you with, good sirs,” Anso purred, essentially dismissing Hrodwynn from the conversation.

“We heard you had a job,” the older one spoke again. Hrodwynn was really beginning to hate him. “Something to do with some… misplaced… property.”

“Yes, well,” Anso looked at Hrodwynn, who was making no move to walk away, “I, ah…”

“Is… she… already hired for the job?” the older asked again, thumbing over towards her.

“‘She’,” responded the girl, “Has a name.”

“Well, since I don’t know your name, I can’t use it, can I?” he fired back at her.

Hrodwynn had the impulse to stick out her tongue, but barely managed to keep herself from doing so. Instead she huffed and let her hand stray back a little closer to her dagger. “I was…”

“Well, ‘was’ implies past tense,” he interrupted. “‘Now’, we are. What do you say, Anso? Who gets the job?”

Maker, but she wanted to gut him in the street. Anso, however, was talking. “Well, good sirs, I am looking for someone who can retrieve some… misplaced… property for me. You see, I had hired some workers to… shall we say… see to it that some merchandise made it through customs without paperwork.”

“You were smuggling,” the older almost sighed. “What kind of property?”

“Ah, well, valuable property, of course, and, ah…”

“Illegal?” the older supplied.

“Yes, well, it’s not actually for me, good sirs, but my client, who’s getting very impatient. Templars can be so unreasonable.”

“Let me guess: you’re smuggling lyrium for the Templars!”

“Templars? That’s just bloody great,” groused the younger. “This isn’t something we want to get involved in, is it.”

It wasn’t so much a question, as a statement. Hrodwynn was beginning to think she should back out, too, at this point. The last thing she needed was to get involved with the Templars, or any kind of authority. But the promised reward was too tempting. And the chance to crack a Siggerdson… Maker, that would help her reputation.

“Look, I know it sounds tricky, but you don’t have to deal with my client, just me. Get the goods from the chest, a small hovel down in the Alienage. Bring them back here, and you’ll get paid.”

“What chest?” the dwarf asked his first question. Hrodwynn looked at him askance, still not liking him.

“Ah, um, er…” Anso shot a guilty glance at Hrodwynn. She resisted the urge to smile as she waited for him to answer. “A locked chest.”

The other dwarf harrumphed, “I can handle a lock.”

“Not this one,” Hrodwynn argued. If these three were considering stealing her contract, she’d muscle her way into their little troupe, damn it!

“There are very few locks that I can’t…”

“It’s a Siggerdson,” she interrupted. The dwarf was immediately silenced.

“What’s a Siggerdson?” the younger asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“It’s a Silverite reinforced, double-hinged chest, with a Fexter lock on a three dial system.” The dwarf gave a low whistle as she finished, “Oh, and Glitterdust gas traps that go off if tampering is detected.”

The dwarf looked up at the older human. “I can’t break that, Hawke.”

“I can,” she boasted, “Blindfolded.”

The older, Hawke, scoffed at this, but Anso cleared his throat. “She’s, ah, she’s right, good sirs,” he sounded disappointed, even reluctant, but he was giving her an opening and she intended to use it. “The lyrium is being kept within a Siggerdson locked chest. Hrodwynn here is the only one I know who even has a chance of opening it.” He looked to her, his eyes almost apologetic, as he finished, “You four will need to team up, Hrodwynn to pick the lock, the three of you to haul the lyrium back here.”

“Glad that’s settled, then,” she lifted her eyes and dared Hawke to defy her.

“And now we’ve taken up babysitting.”

She had stood there and watched him say it, watched those dry and taunting words slip from his lips. Her hand strayed up to her hip again, far too close to that dagger. The next moment, however, the dwarf was sticking his hand in front of her chest and waiting for her to take it. “We should probably introduce ourselves. The bearded one is Garrett Hawke, the other one’s Carver Hawke.” She took his hand, letting go of the idea of taking out her dagger—at least for now. “And I’m Varric.”

Hrodwynn felt her jaw drop. “You’re Varric? I thought you’d be less… ah… likable.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking confused.

“Well," she floundered for a moment, “It’s just that, everyone I’ve heard talk about you, either praises your morals, or calls you some fairly insulting names, usually after you've refused any underhanded dealing. Figured you’d have to be ugly, if they spoke so highly of your personality.”

Varric gave out a guffaw. “You know, I like her spunk.”

“So do I,” agreed Carver, “She’s cute, I mean, it’s cute, her spunk.” He rubbed at the side of his nose, his hand covering the half of his face nearer her.

Hawke sighed, giving him a less than tolerant expression, “Carver, if you want something cute, I’ll buy you a kitten. It’ll be less of a fuss.”

Hrodwynn made to take a step towards him, and a hand towards her dagger, but found her way blocked and her hand held by Varric. “What do you say, we start for this chest, huh? The sooner we start, the sooner the job’s done. And the night won’t last forever.”

She let go of the breath she’d been holding, giving his hand one final shake. “Hrodwynn.”

“What?” Carver asked, seeing as Hawke had already started walking away, obviously feeling himself the leader of their little troupe.

“My name; it’s Hrodwynn.”

“I’ve heard of you, too,” Varric fell into step on her other side. It seems they were both content to let Hawke lead the way, and their obvious deference rankled on her nerves. After all, what had Hawke done to prove himself?

At least, what had he done to prove himself to her?

“I’m glad we’ve made your acquaintance tonight. Been looking forward to bumping into you, actually…”

“Hrodwynn! Wait a moment!” Anso called from behind them.

Hawke didn’t miss a step, didn’t even turn around as he said, “We’re not waiting for you. Catch up, or go home.”

Her eyes narrowed again, her fist itching to smack into his face. Carver gave an apologetic cough, but he continued to follow Hawke. She gave in at last to that impulse to stick out her tongue, before jogging back to Anso. He was a friend, at least. Besides, she knew where the job was better than Hawke did, which he’d figure out sooner or later. Then he’d have to wait for her. “What is it?” she asked sullenly, not willing to admit she was unwilling to let them get too far ahead of her.

Anso acted like he hadn't even noticed her surliness. “If you get the chance,” he said quietly, “Run.”

“Run?”

“Run. I… ah… don’t like the look of these three. Don’t trust them.”

She smiled a little cockily, “I trust them,” she pecked his bearded cheek, “Just like I trust you: to be true to your nature. Bye.”

She turned away so fast, she never saw the look of concern cross his features.

She had been right; Hawke didn’t know where exactly in the Alienage to find the chest. He’d also been too proud to admit it, stating simply for Hrodwynn to go ahead and ‘do her thing’ like it was some fucking slight-of-hand or trick. She smirked, letting him know she knew, but didn’t say anything as she walked into the right house. Carver—his brother? A relative, at any rate—hid another smile and a chuckle behind his hand. She was beginning to like him. At least he didn’t laugh at her like the dwarf had. Still, Varric had a reputation, a good one, and she knew his laughter wasn’t meant unkindly.

This Hawke, however, was another story, she thought to herself as she tramped though the empty rooms towards the one that held the smugglers’ chest. Arrogant, pig-headed, stubborn, full-of-himself… “Son of a bitch!”

“What is it?” Varric asked, coming to peer over her shoulder.

“It’s not a Siggerdson,” she said, standing still and facing the chest sitting dusty and forgotten in a corner. She lifted the lid and slammed it down again. “It’s not even locked. It’s empty!”

“But the house isn’t,” Carver muttered, hearing sounds coming from another room. He unsheathed the greatsword from his back as he ran to meet whoever was there. No less than ten men and women faced them, each of them armed to the teeth.

She pulled out her dagger in her right hand and a short sword from over her shoulder for her left hand. Shit, she thought, a fight. Worse, a trap. Why the fuck would Anso want them to walk into a trap?

That was all the time she had to think, the next several moments lost within a flurry of movement, dodging, slicing, rolling, stabbing, ducking, screaming…

By the time she came to her senses, it was over—thankfully. Her chest heaving, she turned on the spot, looking around for someone still standing.

“Easy, kitten,” Varric’s voice soothed her, his hand reaching out with the fingers spread non-threateningly. “It’s over now.” He eyed her sword and dagger, but relaxed when her arms moved to hang loosely at her sides. “You hurt?”

“I…” she started, not really sure if she was alright, not really sure how to check. She swallowed, “I think so…”

…she had used her short sword to block one man’s attack, pushing his arm away while she sliced his wrist open with her dagger, giving Hawke the chance to hit him with some sort of lightning spell…

…she had ducked beneath a swing and knelt behind another, slicing at the backs of his knees and ankles, distracting him so that Carver could run him through with his sword…

…she had battered at a woman, stabbing at her armored chest and backing her into a position where Varric could riddle her with bolts from his crossbow…

…and she had turned into the arms of another, a boy hardly older than herself and no more experienced, and plunged her dagger into his neck. Blood was hot, like bathwater, though less pleasing to smell, and it washed over her fist, bursting out of his neck like a ruptured bladder. She looked down at her hand, shaking in the lantern light, the skin stained pink, the sleeve of her tunic soaked around her wrist, now cold with the gooey mess.

She hurtled away from the others and towards a corner. The next few moments were taken up with her stomach emptying. Yet Hawke’s voice penetrated through the sounds of her retching, “Did I call it? Babysitting.”

“Shut up,” Carver sighed. His steps were sure as he walked up to Hrodwynn, though his hands weren’t as he set them on her shoulders, mindful of her weapons still in her hands. “Ah, Hrodwynn? Fight’s over. You can put your blades away now.”

She looked at her weapons, her hands shaking, her stomach cramping. The dagger was coated in blood past the hilt, the sword with only a few splotches. When she went to wipe off the blood, she realized she had nothing to use to clean them. Even looking at her clothing, her dark leggings were spotted with suspicious stains. She pulled a corner of her tunic out of her waistband and used that to wipe the worst bits off. Thankfully her hands were shaking less as she sheathed her weapons, or she might have nicked herself.

Carver sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air. It’ll do you good.” He steered her towards the door, Varric walking on her other side, Hawke striding before them like going outside had been his idea. She couldn’t care less, wanting nothing more than to get the taste of sick out of her mouth. Fresh air wouldn’t do that, but it would help clear her nostrils of the metallic scent of blood and acidic scent of bile.

No sooner had they left the hovel, than another group of soldiers surrounded them. Hrodwynn took a better look this time at their attire, and recognized, “Slavers...?”

“Stay behind us,” Carver said, letting go of her shoulders to step forward and draw his sword. Varric was already pulling out his crossbow, positioning himself in front of her. Though broader, she was still taller and could clearly see how many they faced.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the cramping of her stomach and the cold sweat that burst out all over her, making her palms sweat. She had to tighten her grip to keep from dropping her sword, but she wasn’t about to make them have to protect her. She was going to earn her share, damn it, and not give the arrogant Hawke an excuse to deny her any of the money.

This fight went on for longer, the area larger and the numbers more. Hrodwynn fought hard, trying not to think, trying not to notice the blood and guts that spilled out of a woman’s side, or the fountain of blood erupting from a beheaded corpse. That had been courtesy of Carver when someone was sneaking up behind her. She returned the favor not two moments later, when someone was about to hit Carver with a spell from his staff. She knocked the staff away with a kick, and drove her dagger into his hand for good measure. He started to curse but broke off suddenly, her sword back-handing across his windpipe.

It was messy, as she wasn’t trained on how to fight, but the sheer number of enemies meant she had to at least try. The others were capable, however, more than capable as she watched the man about to cleave her in two fall over dead. Hawke appeared, having caved in the side of his head with the wicked-looking mace end of his staff. He flashed her a look, a little too condescending for her tastes, but turned away without a word to fight the next person.

She noted absently that he didn’t have any blood or gore on his fancy clothing. The ass.

She was out of breath by the time the fight was over, bent over again with her hands on her knees, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Varric approached her first again, taking hold of her elbow. “Any of that blood yours, kitten?”

She wanted to bark at him, to tell him to stop calling her that, but his voice was so gentle and sincere she only shook her head. “I… don’t think so…”

“When you’re done re-tossing your cookies, we should get moving,” Hawke said drolly, “Never a good idea to hang around corpses.”

Varric was holding her head, or she might have said something that time. The dwarf’s fingers dug through her dark red hair, tugging to keep her facing him, making sure there were no bumps or bruises. “Skull’s fine. You should have that cut on your shin looked at, though.”

She glanced down and saw the fabric of her leggings ripped, blood oozing from what looked like a welt or abrasion. She vaguely remembered the side of someone’s boot scraping down the front of her leg, and crying out with pain and anger and stabbing repeatedly into the torso before her…

After several dry heaves, she stood back up and wiped the back of her hand across her lips.

“Finally!” Hawke harrumphed. “Let’s get going. I want to talk with Anso about this…”

She was wiping her hand off on her backside, her eyes shooting daggers at the git, when yet another soldier confronted them. Maker, this was a bad night. No wonder Anso had told her to run…

She wanted to pursue that thought, beginning to think there might have been a better reason why Anso gave her such advice, but then the most remarkable thing happened. Someone stepped out from around a corner behind this latest soldier, or captain, or bounty hunter… whatever the fuck he was. She didn't care about the captain; her eyes were locked on the new person, an elf, male, tall and lanky and clad in skin-tight armor, with the most mesmerizing tattoos or war paint or… some sort of markings. The elf strolled with such bravado right past the captain and addressed their little troupe. He seemed unconcerned that this hunter was armed and now at his unprotected back.

Hrodwynn saw the hunter draw his weapon. She was going to cry out a warning. Hawke, too, looked as if he was about to take a step forward. But the elf turned, his markings flared, lighting the courtyard into day, showing through his armor and clothing…

And his hand and forearm passed straight through the hunter’s chest.


	2. Agreggio Pavali

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I’ve written fan fiction before (if you’ve followed me here from Skyrim, hi! *waves spastically at the computer screen*), I’m new to Dragon Age II, and I’m still on my first play through, so I’ll probably make mistakes and mess stuff up. Don’t get mad, just let me know so I can fix it. Thank you XD  
> Also, I tend to write long chapters (like 7,000 to 9,000 words long), but I’m trying to keep them shorter this time around. Yeah, right—we’ll see how long that lasts ;D

Hrodwynn wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but she did want to listen in on the conversation. Actually she, Carver and Varric were standing back a ways, all three of them going through the motions of looking at various nicks and scrapes they’d gotten during all the fighting, all three of them listening intently to the conversation between Fenris and Hawke.

Fenris was… well… unique. And he seemed willing to speak with Hawke, even though the guy was a git. The other three strained their ears, only speaking distractedly to each other in hushed tones, as Fenris tiredly let go of whatever meager information on himself he was willing to impart. It wasn’t much, but hearing of his distrust of mages—alright, his outright hatred—made Hrodwynn smirk. Briefly. Carver was looking at her nose just then, so it might’ve passed for a grimace. Really.

When he spoke of how his former master wanted the lyrium back, preferably over his dead body, Hawke remarked on how that would be a waste of a perfectly handsome elf… and Hrodwynn nearly choked. Not that Fenris wasn’t handsome—she wasn’t sure… he was… different… intriguing… mysterious… something! No, she didn’t choke because of Fenris’ looks; she choked because she finally figured Hawke out. The neatly trimmed beard, the artfully mussed hair, the fussiness with his clothing…

She just happened to be looking at Carver when he said that, and saw his brows scrunch down a little—so he didn’t approve of his older brother’s taste in bedmates. Well, that could explain some of the animosity between them. She supposed she didn’t really care who—or what—Hawke slept with, as long as she got her fair share from tonight.

Fenris left and Carver went to go talk with Hawke, so she stayed next to Varric. Her mind must’ve wandered, because suddenly Hawke was standing over her, almost making her jump. “Hey,” his hand was on her shoulder, turning her to face him, Varric moving a little bit away.

“What?” she sniffed, holding her hand to her face. The nosebleed had finally slowed, but it still throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch. She really didn’t want to deal with Hawke’s condescending and snide remarks, not when her eyes were watering. But his hand wouldn’t let her get away.

“Listen, you… you fought pretty well… back there,” he nodded at the mansion. “I’d, well, I’d like to work with you again, sometime, perhaps.”

She sniffed again, a little less clogged, and nodded. “Sure, fine, sounds good.”

“Where can I find you?”

“Ah…” she blinked, thinking quickly. Usually she’d tell him to leave word with Anso, but the snake had set her up for that ambush. Well, it wasn’t like she could really blame him, but damn it she had almost gotten killed! She was a thief, a rogue, a lock picker—NOT a fighter.

Yet he had tried not to give her the job. And he had warned her to run. And she only had herself to blame, that she had stuck around and tried to help. Anso was a snake, sure, but that was his nature. He did whatever he could for his clients; just so happened that this time she wasn’t his client. Fenris had been. She refused the impulse to look over her shoulder at the mansion which the strange elf had just entered.

“Leave word with Anso,” she sighed, “I check in with him for jobs and the like.”

Hawke’s brow furrowed a little, “You still trust him? After he let us walk into that ambush?”

Hrodwynn gave her head a nod, and regretted it as it made her nose throb worse than before. He saw her wince, and pulled her hand away to look at the damage. Long, gentle fingers probed at the bridge of her nose, making her stutter as she answered, “He… ow… he usually finds good jobs… ow… for me. I kinda pushed my way into this… ouch!… this one.”

“Why?” he asked, sounding exasperated. “You were in over your head, you know.”

“I thought the job was to break a Siggerdson lock, not be bait in a trap. Stop touching it!”

He pulled his hand back before she could smack him a second time. “It doesn’t look broken, if you’re worried about that. But you should have it looked at by a healer, just to be sure.”

She kept herself from rolling her eyes at the obvious statement. “I know someone I can go to.”

“Good,” he said, and looked at Carver who made a continuing sort of motion with his hand. “Good, well, we found some reasonable loot in the mansion. I suppose you could come by the Hanged Man, say, the day after tomorrow,” he looked at the dawn about to break over the horizon, “Or should I say, tomorrow afternoon for your share? Varric’s got a room there; just ask for him.”

She nodded, thinking there was no way he was going to hand over her ‘fair share’ of last night’s take. Well, at least he made the gesture, however hollow. She felt her purse at her side; she should have enough for the time being.

“I’ll probably be in the main part of the tavern by that time,” Varric added, “Drinking. Look for me there; I’ll buy the first round.”

And just like that her mood flipped. Maybe she would get her money after all, if Varric was going to have anything to say about it. She smiled at him. It was a little garish, half-dried blood over the lower part of her face, her white teeth shining in the predawn light. “Looking forward to it.” She had been in the Hanged Man a few times, and kicked out right away every time. Ah, well, maybe sitting with Varric she could manage a sip or two before the barkeeper ran her off for being too young.

Yup, the night hadn’t been a complete loss. Sure, she hadn’t broken into a Siggerdson like she wanted, something that would have elevated her reputation to legendary status. But at least she was going to get something out of this. She caught Carver’s eye, and asked, “You’ll be there, too?” At his mute nod, she winked, “Then I’ll be sure to see you tomorrow afternoon.” He gave her a timid smile, but Hawke was already leaving and he had to break it off quickly.

The three left, talking as they walked away, turning a corner and leaving her sight. She supposed she should leave, too; a nice long nap was sounding perfectly wonderful right then. But in looking back at the mansion one last time, she saw something she had missed earlier thanks to the night and the shadows. With the first rays of sunlight, she could now see a long smudge of something dark on the wall where Fenris had been leaning.

Blood.

Checking the ground near his footprints, she found more drips and drops.

Damn, no wonder Fenris had been so exhausted during his conversation with Hawke. And he had not once spoken about his own injuries or pain. She squinted at the doorway of the mansion; though it was firmly closed, it held only a standard issue lock. Well, that wasn’t going to stop her.

* * *

Fenris was tired. His body screamed for rest, yet he felt anything but confident sleeping so soon after a fight, and in his enemy’s home.

Truthfully, he supposed it wasn’t Danarius’ mansion, usurped from some other noble for the duration of his short visit to Kirkwall. However, his former master had walked this very floor, between these very walls. He could almost hear the bastard’s voice, the sound of his footfalls coming up behind him, feel his hands touching him…

Fenris paced on as if he could pace away from those memories. He stalked through the rooms, searching for anything Danarius might have left behind, or anything of value overlooked by that mercenary Hawke and his companions. They had taken the choicest items, something Fenris didn’t begrudge as he had no money of his own to pay them their promised fee. He did hope, however, that there would be something left for him to sell. He didn’t know how long he would have until the next group of bounty hunters came for him, and a body needed food and drink to survive.

After several hours he was in the cellar, up to his elbows in a partially unpacked crate. Nestled inside the straw he found several bottles of Agreggio Pavali. He pulled one out, staring at it like a poor man stares at an uncut diamond. The drink was rare, expensive, and there were enough bottles to fetch him a heavy purse. He didn’t think he’d sell the bottles, however, at least not all of them. Pavali had been Danarius’ favorite drink. A flash of memory returned to him, a kiss they had shared late one night after a party. Even though Fenris had been made to entertain first the guests and then the master, the lingering burning ache didn’t keep him from smelling the alcohol on Danarius’ breath, tasting it on his lips. Fenris had stolen the taste, savored it in his own mouth—and that moment was when his first selfish desire bloomed to life. He wanted to taste it someday, taste it for himself, have the sweetly strong liquid stain his lips, fill his mouth, thicken and swell his parched throat…

He found himself upstairs a short while later, rifling through the rubbish in the master suite for anything that might resemble a drinking vessel. He shoved an overturned chair out of the way, and that annoying twinge in his shoulder returned. Suddenly his vision blurred, the bottle slipped from his fingers, but only fell a short distance. He looked stupidly at the bottle, rolling away from him across the floor, and numbly wondered how he had ended up on his knees.

The bottle came to rest beneath a foot, tilted up at an angle to stop its progress. Fenris looked at the boot, and then looked at the leg coming out of the boot, thin and long and covered in dark leggings. He followed the leg up to find a bright green tunic, a festive color that made his eyes want to hurt it looked so alive. He lifted his gaze higher, and saw a familiar face. Forcing away the fatigue, he let out a small grunt as he gained his feet.

“I… ah… hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in…” the girl gestured vaguely behind her, taking her cloak off her shoulders.

He waved off her concern, apparently not upset that she had invited herself into his ‘home,’ nor that she seemed intent on staying. “You’re one of Hawke’s friends, aren’t you?” he asked. “I don’t remember your name…”

“Hrodwynn,” she supplied. Her bright green eyes—a perfect match for the tunic—blinked at him, and for a moment she was the one staring stupidly.

“I should say something like, ‘pleased to meet you, Hrodwynn,’ shouldn’t I?” He walked up to her, his steps slow, his posture alert despite his fatigue. “But I’m afraid I haven’t much practice with social courtesies.” She didn’t flinch as his gauntleted hand reached up to push a lock of dark red hair back behind her ear. He told himself it was only to look at the cut she’d gotten earlier during the fight, the cut she’d gotten from the blow that had bloodied her nose.

The cut she’d gotten when she had stepped up behind him and blocked a swing that would have cloven through his spine.

“How’s the nose?”

She sniffed, blinked, and seemed to come back to herself. “It’s, ah, not broken, thanks for asking,” she answered. He watched as two bright pink splotches of color stained the pale skin of her cheeks. She was a funny little girl, quirky and spry and full of spunk, but loyal and determined, as he recalled from the comments that flew between her and Hawke shortly after the fight in the Alienage. She hadn’t signed up for a fight, but she wasn’t going to back out just because things got bloody. He found himself admiring her courage. “Mind if I use your fireplace?” she pointed off to the side, but for some reason didn’t turn away. He though it might be because his gauntleted hand was still at the side of her face, and she was concerned about hurting herself on the talon-like tips of his fingers.

“For what?” he asked, taking his hand away, his gravely voice deepening further. Though he didn’t mind the company, he didn’t want her to think she would be welcomed here, at any time of day or night, when more hunters could come for him at any moment. Too much danger for such an innocent to get herself wrapped up in.

“Well, ah, I brought a few things, for, well, any injuries you might have.” Truthfully, the salves and sutures and herbs had been free, but the little bit of food had emptied out her meager coin purse. It would be worth it, however, if she could trust Hawke to pay her tomorrow.

If she could trust Varric, actually. That dwarf had a good reputation, and if he worked with Hawke, then at the very least he’d see that she got her fair share, even if Hawke had been disinclined to include her on last night’s contract. And that Carver fellow, too, seemed like an upstanding sort of guy. She tried not to think of them as she knelt beside the cold hearth Fenris had gestured towards, focusing instead on setting out all the things she had brought from her healer friend in Darktown. Fenris was hurt, now, and needed her help, because she was damn sure no one else had noticed his injuries, even himself.

He watched her for a few moments, curious and admittedly a little fascinated, as she started pulling items from her pack. She set out little folded packets of herbs, potent ones if his nose did not deceive him. There were also a couple of small jars, a folded leather pouch that reminded him of… old unpleasantness. Next came a loaf of bread and something encased in paper that looked like it had juices soaking through the wrapper. Still she continued, until the entire sack had been emptied and lay, rumpled and currently unneeded, by her cloak.

“I said,” she stood up, the movement attracting his wandering thoughts, “Do you have any firewood?”

He gave himself a little shake; she had been talking this whole time, and he couldn’t remember a word of it. He must be more tired than he thought if he was losing focus. When was the last time he’d slept? “No, that is, I don’t know.”

She nodded to herself, looking around for something suitable. “I suppose you’ll want to save those papers, in case they say where this Danarius has gone. I’ll just use the wardrobe over there, seeing as it’s in splinters anyway.” She kicked and stomped at the wood, prying off piece after piece, until she had a fair-sized load in her arms. “Have you found anything useful, like a flint?” she asked as she set up the wood in the fireplace.

He shook his head, “I haven’t found much of use here other than that bottle.”

She had continued to focus on starting a fire while he answered. Finding a low burning lantern on the mantle, she lit a smaller splinter in the flame, using that to start the fire. When the flames were catching onto the larger pieces, she turned her attention towards the bottle. She had set the Pavali down on a small table, and as she looked at it her dark red eyebrows drew into a frown. She made a little hum, like she was thinking to herself, before giving a half-hearted shrug. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Might even help dull the pain.”

“Pain?” he asked. He was having far too much trouble following her. He felt that keenly when she turned back to him, a look on her face like she was addressing a backwards child.

“You’re hurt, Fenris, and bleeding. Didn’t you notice it?” She studied the remarkable elf before her. Sure, he had been a slave, and she supposed he hadn’t noticed he was hurting because he was no stranger to pain. But he had to be blind not to see the trail of red drops he left all through the mansion. She watched his eyes, a dull green that seemed cold and already faded from this life, and slightly out of focus as he stared at her face. Perhaps that was it: he was in shock from his injuries. Well, she had brought medicine that would help with that, too.

He didn’t answer her question, or couldn’t, either way she didn’t feel disappointed. Instead she pointed to a low couch in front of the fire and said, “Sit.”

He obeyed her unquestioningly, taking a seat exactly where she had pointed, his posture perfect and his face blank. It gave her a bit of concern. Either he was too exhausted to think or argue with her, or he realized that she was right and he was in need of her help—or he was still used to being a slave and doing whatever an authoritative voice commanded. She pushed away that last thought and grabbed the Pavali. After casting about for a cup, and not finding one besides what she had brought for the medicinal tea, she finally decided just to uncork the wine or brandy or whatever it was and hand him the bottle. “Take a healthy swig.”

He took it from her, stared at it a moment, and then raised it in a toast. “Benefaris.”

Hrodwynn couldn’t help herself, watching as he tipped his head back, the mouth of the bottle pressed against his pursed lips, his eyes falling half closed as his larynx bobbed. He had an unusual expression on his face, a strange mixture of longing and expectation and desire and fulfillment. She had no idea what was going through his mind, and after a moment she realized she probably wouldn’t want to know.

After his third swallow, he lowered the bottle to the couch at his side and made a funny sort of sound. The corner of his mouth twitched, his black brows curved and his eyes staring into the fireplace. She didn’t think the alcohol would hit him that hard that fast, but he definitely had the look of someone who was lost in his thoughts. She knelt in front of him between his legs and began working on removing his armor.

His first taste… his first real taste… had been everything he had hoped it would be, and nothing like what he had imagined. The Pavali was thick and heavy in his mouth, seeming to swell and expand though he knew it was only because he had tried to swallow an oversized mouthful. The fumes swept up the back of his throat and invaded his sinuses, but he resisted the impulse to sneeze. The liquor hit his empty stomach and burned, a delicious pain that he could savor—the pain of a free man, one who could drink what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and not have to steal it from his master’s lips.

He came out of his musings at the first tug, and was amazed to find the girl kneeling before him. He lifted questioning eyes to hers, but she didn’t answer, other than continuing to pull at his gauntlets, mindful of the sharp claw-like tips on his fingers. Next came the belt; she could feel his eyes burning into the top of her head as she undid the buckle just off-center of his front. When she lifted his arm to work on the fastening for his cuirass, he finally let out a reaction. The hiss was short, surprising both of them she thought, but at least he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t feel pain.

She moved more carefully after that, working from the other side. His eyes followed her, still questioning, still unanswered. It was a bit of a struggle, for her to lift the strange cuirass off his shoulders without stabbing herself on the pointy bits, or making him have to move his hurt shoulder. At last, though, she finally had the armor removed; all that remained between her and the wound was his tunic.

Her fingers trembled a little as she started on those fastenings, not sure whether or not he would allow her to remove it. She felt like she was trying to help a wounded animal, something used to being caged and beaten, and now that it was free of the cage, it was also free to distrust. She swallowed her fear and unease, the sound of her nervous gulp loud in the chamber, but he thankfully made no comment.

When she had bared his torso, she found herself fascinated once more by the strange markings. She had the impulse to touch them, to trace them with her fingers, to memorize their curves and lines, their circles and tips. They seemed to be everywhere, inscribing some secret meaning into his very flesh. But the wound just to the side of his shoulder blade was an angry red and festering. Setting aside the tunic, she reached over for a few of the items she had prepared earlier.

He saw her pick up that small parcel wrapped in leather. He watched her closely as she unwrapped it, revealing exactly what he thought would be inside—knives and tweezers and a small needle… He could remember similar items in Danarius’ hands, being used to cause pain, to cut and rip and injure. His eyes must have showed something of his thoughts, because when he looked up at her, he saw her smiling at him reassuringly. Just a small smile, hardly there before it was gone. Then, implements in hand, she moved out of his sight behind his back.

He leaned forwards, his elbows on his thighs, as she went to work. Yes, there was pain, there was always pain. Pain infused his very being every waking—and sleeping—moment of his life. This pain was different, localized, precise, clean. He could almost picture it, one of her hands pressed to his fevered skin, the other holding the small-bladed knife, cutting through infected tissue, slicing further into the wound to get at the source of the pain. The tweezers were next, digging around, grabbing hold of something, tugging, pulling, a soft curse falling from her lips as she lost whatever it was, and then pulling again, long and slow and final.

It came out with her small exhale of triumph, and she dropped the wooden splinter still clutched by the tweezers onto the couch beside him. When had he gotten that? Thinking back, he realized it had been from that night, the last time the bounty hunter had cornered him, after he had jumped through a window. He must’ve been shot as he jumped, and the roll across the floor had broken off the wooden bolt, but left a splinter from the shaft buried in his back.

He became aware of the fact that she hadn’t moved, that she was still standing behind him, one hand laying cool against his sweaty skin, part of her fingers brushing one of the markings. Her light touch was as painful as a burn, but without the scarring. No, the scars were already there, in the form of those marks, and just as permanent.

He supposed he should explain some of it, how he could walk around with a splinter from a bolt in his back and not know it. He felt her pull away, and for a moment he feared she had gotten tired of his stoic silence—and why should that matter to him? Then she returned, rinsed his wound and began applying a numbing salve against the edges.

“The markings on my skin,” he began, not sure what he was saying or why, but wanting to fill the silence between them, wanting her to understand, wanting to find out if she would pity him as others had. “The lyrium. It was not only painful having them put into my flesh, but they continue to leave me in agony. It never ceases, and worsens when the markings are touched, if you had been wondering how I could have not known of that,” he nodded to the splinter.

Now it had come, the moment of truth: would she pity him? Would she be disgusted by him?

Would she continue to treat him as a person?

Hrodwynn was barely holding it together. She fought the trembling in her fingers as she finished stitching the wound closed. She blinked away the tears before they could fall. She swallowed the lump in her throat before it could choke her voice. Fenris was proud; she had been able to tell that from the beginning. He did not tell her this to garner her pity.

“You should have someone take the stitches out in a week or so,” she said, when she was fairly sure she could speak normally. “In the meantime, try not to get shot in the back again. Or if you do,” she pressed a soothing poultice over the wound and began winding bandages around his chest to hold it in place, “Find someone to dig it out right away. There are some herbs here, to fight off any fever or infection. I’d suggest going to a healer, but that takes money, which—I’m just guessing—you don’t have.” Like hell was she going to suggest going to a mage for healing, even Hawke, after hearing how what Danarius had done to him left him in such continual pain. His hatred and distrust of mages made perfect sense.

Fenris looked over his shoulder at her, and got a hand in his face forcing him to look straight once more. “Don’t twist like that; you’ll mess me up.”

He smiled, on some level appreciating the way she scolded him. No, she wasn’t going to treat him any differently. He relaxed a little, not realizing how tense he had become, and allowed her to finish her ministrations.

“You should have something to eat, before you fall asleep,” her chiding voice made him blink his eyes open. He hadn’t realized he had almost dozed off, sitting on the couch, still leaning forwards as she tied off the bandage. He twisted again to look over his shoulder at her, following her as she walked around the couch and returned to the fire. The paper-wrapped package with the stains of gravy had been warming on a plate. She brought it to him, opening the envelope and letting the steam escape. Several slices of roast beef were inside, well seasoned and stewing in their own juices. He accepted the plate and attacked the food, eating it like his name implied, without any utensils. Hunger urged him to lick his fingers, too jealous to waste even the smallest drop of gravy.

She passed over a cup of medicinal tea and the loaf of bread, both of which were finished off in a similar fashion. Again Hrodwynn got the impression of a wild animal, accepting the help and food, but still not trusting, not giving, not sharing.

That wasn’t quite true—he had shared with her about his pain from the markings. It had been something personal, something he no doubt didn’t trust just anyone with knowing about him. But he had trusted her.

She saw that he was looking at her strangely, his pale green eyes staring into her bright green, giving her the feeling that he was trying to leach the color and life from her, or maybe use her liveliness to replenish his spent spirit. She lifted her chin a little, leaned away a little, and gave a little cough. “You should probably rest now.”

He didn’t answer, feeling strange. He wasn’t sure if it was something in the salve she had used, or the medicine she made him take, or the Pavali he had drunk earlier, but a very pleasant warmth was spreading through his limbs—almost drowning out the unpleasant sensations. She was sitting next to him, then standing, then taking his hands, then pulling him to his feet. He stood before her, looking down on her looking up at him, and had to speak. “How old are you?”

A blush stole back across her cheeks again, a lovely color on her pale skin. She was so full of color, the dark red of her hair, the bright green of her eyes, the white of her skin, the pink of her blush, the red of her lips. He could kiss those lips, thick and soft and inviting, and it would be because it was something he wanted, not because another had willed it. Yet when the moment came for him to lean forwards, he found he couldn’t move.

“Old enough,” she said, her voice gentle to his ears. It took him a moment before he remembered what the question had been, and another moment to see that she was pulling away. No, he was turning away, or she was turning him away, her hands careful to touch his markings as minimally as possible. The bed was before him, with a real mattress that wasn’t stuffed with straw, with thick and soft bedclothes. He wanted to pull away, thinking of how Danarius had slept on that bed… but then the animal in him wanted to sleep there, wanted to mark that territory now for his own. He took another swig from the bottle—how had it gotten back into his hand?—and sat down on the edge of the bed.

She wanted to ask him if he’d be alright now on his own, but she wasn’t sure if he’d hear her, much less not be offended by her concern. She watched him tip the bottle back again, his eyes getting that faraway look to them once more, and instead asked, “What are you thinking of?”

He pulled the bottle away from his lips, filling his vision with her face. She was still standing, leaning over him, her hair falling forwards over her shoulders. He could kiss her now, his hand reaching up to cup her shoulder, wanting to climb higher to her neck, to pull her the rest of the way down…

And her first kiss, like his had been, would be of Pavali-tainted breath.

“Venhedis,” his deep voice sighed, and he watched the little furrow of confusion grow between her eyebrows. No, he wouldn’t do to her—or to anyone—what had been done to him. His hand on her shoulder gave her a gentle shove. When she staggered back a step, his other hand threw the bottle against the wall, the liquor exploding with the shards, bursting outwards in a strange, haphazard pattern. Exhausted, he laid down on the bed. “You should go now.”

She took another step back, fighting the shock and the cringe after the thrown bottle, though the confusion was too strong to simply wipe away. Had he… had he been about to kiss her? She thought so, having seen that look before in a man’s eyes. But then… what in the world had stopped him? It wasn’t like she would have refused him, would she? She thought back over her actions, trying to think if she had given him the wrong impression, then trying to think what was the impression she had wanted to give him. She had come uninvited into his home, halfway undressed him, tended his injuries, fed him, took him to bed…

She supposed he had a right to feel confusion, too, and to change his mind regarding kissing her. Truly she hadn’t meant to act so… brazen, but what else could he think after all her actions tonight? Her gaze returned to his form on the bed, his eyes closed already in repose, his dark brows softening from their guarded slant to a somewhat… less reserved… curve. Perhaps she could blame it on the alcohol, if he ever asked her of this.

She pulled a blanket over his form, picked up her empty sack and cloak, and closed the door behind her as she quietly left.


	3. Tepid Brew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quickie to say thank you for the Kudos and Subscriptions *gushes*  
> P.S. I don’t know why my Hawke is such an asshole, but I’m loving the idea and running with it like a kid with a pair of really sharp scissors XP

The Hanged Man wasn’t as exciting as Hrodwynn had led herself to believe. It was hot, stuffy, and smelled of the worst sort of filth and uncleanliness she had ever encountered. And that was saying something for a girl who lived in Darktown. There were piles in the corners where the stuff had been pushed out of the way, and stains on the wooden floor and tables where it hadn’t been pushed away fast enough. She supposed that’s why everyone drank themselves into a stupor, so they wouldn’t continue to smell the piss and vomit and… she didn’t want to think what else.

She had trouble with the noise, too. The patrons had had plenty of time for drinking already, and they seemed to have to increase the volume of their voices with the level of their drunkenness. There were a lot of people in the tavern—enough so that, by the time she arrived in the late afternoon, she was almost palpably hit with a wall of noise as soon as she opened the door.

Pushing through the crowd, she quickly spied Carver and Varric sitting at a table with three women. There was no sign of Hawke, but she hid her disappointment—she had tried coming a little later, hoping he would be there and she could just get her money and leave. But seeing how Carver was smiling up at her, and Varric gesturing a welcome grandly with his arms, she decided she could sit and wait for Hawke.

“Kitten! Glad you could join us. I was beginning to worry about you,” Varric beamed at her, his face a little flushed.

“I, ah,” she hedged, fighting her own battle to keep the pink off her cheeks—though for very different reasons—as she slid down on the bench next to Carver. “I had something else to… do today… that took longer than I thought… it would.” Yup, that sounded lame to her ears, but it seemed no one else noticed. Varric waved the excuse aside and began pointing out the others, starting with the woman sitting at the end of the table, on the other side of Carver.

“Let’s get you introduced to everyone. We’ll start with Isabela. Captain of the…”

“Former Captain, if you don’t mind,” she interrupted before taking a large swig from her mug.

“Right, excuse me. Formerly of the Siren’s Call. That was a pirate ship, in case you hadn’t heard of it.” His whisper was so loud, she was sure the whole tavern had been able to hear it. Fortunately, no one took notice of their conversation. Even Isabela seemed unconcerned over her ‘former’ illegal profession being bantered around.

“Next we have Aveline,” Varric sighed, indicating the woman between himself and Isabela. He reached an arm out of sight behind her back, and something he did made her jump and elbow him in the side. He was laughing as he finished, “The Captain of the City Guard.”

“Oh, she has a pirate ship, too?” the third woman asked, sitting at the other end of the table from Isabela. She was holding her mug to her face, her voice echoing inside the clay vessel.

Carver and Isabela laughed, Aveline sighed, and Varric shook his head sadly, “No, Daisy, the City Guard what patrols the city. This is Merrill, by the way, a Dalish Mage we’ve sort of picked up.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she hiccoughed, holding out her hand. Hrodwynn took it, smiling warmly and liking the silly elf from the start.

“Everyone, this is Hrodwynn, a little rogue after my own heart. Can pick a Siggerdson lock blindfolded, or so she claims.”

“Interesting,” hummed Isabela, a crafty look sparking in her eyes.

“I don’t need to hear this,” moaned Aveline, making the former pirate laugh. “Where’s Hawke? He should have been here hours ago. I can’t spend all day waiting for him before we discuss…”

“He said he had a stop to make on his way here,” broke in Carver. By the surliness of his tone, he wasn’t happy over wherever his brother had gone. “Excuse me, but I’m going to refill my mug. Anyone else up for another round?”

“Me!” agreed Varric, taking a moment to pick up his mug and down it in one go. “Since you offered to buy.”

Carver rolled his eyes, but took the mug. “Anyone else? You, Hrodwynn?”

“Oh, ah,” she hesitated for only half a heartbeat, “Sure, whatever you’re having.”

Aveline’s eyebrow rose up in a motherly manner, but Isabela hid her smirk behind her mug. “So,” the Rivain said as soon as Carver had gone to order the next round. Leaning forward, her ample bosom nearly spilled out onto the table top, momentarily distracting Varric. “Hrodwynn, is it? Sounds Ferelden. I take it the ‘H’ is silent?”

Hrodwynn had no idea what Isabela was talking about. “Suppose so,” she muttered, feeling like everyone was staring at her. “Never gave it much thought, but sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it’s not.” She felt her cheeks burning, wondering why Varric’s eyebrows scrunched and Aveline’s stern look softened. Damn, but she hated this feeling, like there was something she was supposed to know, but she couldn’t figure out what. It made her feel backwards and stupid, and she knew she was smart—how many others could crack a Siggerdson—but a silent ‘aich’ was beyond her.

Maybe she meant ache? Ache’s didn’t make a noise, but you sometimes did when you had an ache. She kept her mouth shut, however, letting the others think what they wanted, Isabela sensing her discomfort and changing the subject.

Maker, but this was getting uncomfortable. She thought about leaving, but she had yet to get paid. Besides, Carver was here, and he was pleasant to be around, even if his brother was an arse. She glanced off to the side, where Carver was gesturing to their table and arguing with the bartender. Apparently she wasn’t going to be served, again. Oh, well, at least she had been allowed to stay this time. She was about to get up and tell Carver to forget the drink, when he said the name ‘Hawke’ loudly enough to reach the table. Apparently he won the argument, as the bartender grudgingly filled a third mug.

Her blush was still fairly pink when he returned with the three mugs, one of which had been under-poured. She accepted it without comment, took a sip of the brew and barely managed to swallow. She didn’t find it as appetizing as she had thought it would be, tepid and watered down. But it was the thought that counted, the thought that she was included in their diverse group, and—for one evening at least—she actually felt accepted, even somewhat… happy…? As the evening wore on she sat, one hand wrapped around the clay vessel, the other propping up her chin, smiling and listening to Varric tell stories of how each of them had met.

The dwarf was a natural storyteller.

The tavern was getting crowded, which meant it was getting noisier, and Hrodwynn found herself leaning in closer to Carver to hear better. Then Hawke walked in. She supposed that wasn’t surprising, since apparently everyone was there to meet him for some reason or another, but his companion made everyone take notice—everyone in the tavern. Even Hrodwynn found herself staring as a slightly aloof and unsocial Fenris strode uneasily up to their table.

“Everyone?” Hawke called out to them, but she was sure the whole tavern was watching. He seemed to realize this, too, and added a little more flamboyantly, “This is my new friend, Fenris. Everyone say hi,” he prompted. After the chorus of greetings rose from the table, he slapped Fenris on the shoulder, the same one that had the wound, and Hrodwynn thought she saw a slight grimace cross his features.

Fenris was taken aback at first; being so readily accepted by strangers was something new to him. He remembered enough of his manners to nod an acknowledgement of their welcome. He stole a glance at Hawke, to get some hint or clue on what to do next, but Hawke had taken a seat between Varric and Aveline, his head bent close to the dwarf’s in a private conversation. He was apparently on his own.

Looking around the table, he saw quite an array of characters. The Rivain was certainly eye-catching, matching the description Hawke had given him. Actually Hawke had described everyone to him on their way here, because he wanted Fenris to join them on some adventure and had tried to make sure he didn’t feel unwelcome or lost upon his introduction. He hadn’t mentioned that Hrodwynn would be here, however, which surprised him as he was fairly sure the two didn’t like each other.

Suddenly realizing he was standing there, staring at everyone, and probably acting fairly rude, he took the closest available seat, right next to the young, brightly colored girl. She was wearing yet another tunic tonight, this one a dark red that nearly matched her hair. As he sat she wiggled to the side, freeing up a little more space on the bench.

Hrodwynn didn’t want Fenris to think she was moving away from him, just making room for him, so she shifted over just a little. The table was already crowded, however, so she couldn’t go too far. Carver sitting on her other side had a hand on his lap, and when she made room for Fenris, her thigh pressed against his, trapping two of his fingers between them. He waited until she took a nervous sip of ale before he ever-so-slowly pulled them free.

The weak, tepid brew shot out of her mouth and across the table, running off the edge and onto Hawke’s lap. He hissed a curse and looked up at her, his eyes narrowing, trying to decide of she’d done that on purpose. Hrodwynn, however, wasn’t paying attention to him, trying to ignore Carver’s fingers teasingly on her thigh as Fenris patted her back to help clear her airways.

“Poor girl, can’t hold her ale,” giggled Merrill.

“You should talk, Daisy,” Varric sighed at her. “Another mug, and you won’t be able to find your way home. Again.”

“Oh, that’s alright. There’s always someone willing to help me get home. I have lots of people offering, every time I leave here.” She gave a little hiccough.

Isabela rolled her eyes, Aveline shook her head, and Carver coughed as Varric added, “I know, my dear. And it’s costing me a fortune to see that you get home without their help. Just…” he took her mug out of her hands, “Do me a favor, and walk home with Isabela tonight, alright?”

“Oh, you want me to spend the night with Isabela? But then why go back to my place? I thought she had a room here.”

Carver’s cough turned into a poorly disguised laugh. Aveline put a hand to her brow, and Isabela stared at her as if she couldn’t believe Merrill could be so dense. Hrodwynn hid a giggle behind her mug, looking at Carver to ask, “Do you always have this much fun?”

“Oh, yes,” Hawke said drolly, “Whether we’re fighting shades, or Merrill’s naivety, or babysitting little girls, it’s always a riot.”

Hrodwynn felt the sting of his words keenly, even if not everyone there understood the jibe, dropping her gaze to her mug but refusing to let the tears out. Fine, Hawke saw her as a little kid, a tagalong, whatever. There was no reason she should give a fuck what he thought of her, no reason at all.

Carver snapped his fingers, as if only just remembering something, as he came to her defense. “Speaking of fighting shades,” he began, “Hrodwynn never got her share from the other night, did she? You had promised to pay her this afternoon…”

Hawke made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, and his tone of voice was anything but contrite. “Ah, sorry, must’ve slipped my mind. Here.”

A bag of coin was tossed at her, lobbed over the top of the table like a missile. She saw it heading straight for her tender nose, but without even flinching she reached out and caught it in her left hand. Bringing her hand and the purse down from in front of her face, she looked at Hawke and smiled as nicely as she could manage. “Thank you.”

“Well, now that you’ve got your money, I suppose you’ll be on your way,” Hawke continued, glancing at the door suggestively.

Hrodwynn couldn’t help getting the impression that she was being dismissed. Especially when he continued to stare at her, one eyebrow raised suggestively, like he was waiting for something. She wanted to stay with Carver and Varric, and the others, but the longer she hesitated, the darker his expression grew. She never glanced around at the others, or she would have seen Carver’s indignation, or Isabela’s amusement, or Aveline’s shock.

Or Fenris’ disappointment.

Instead her vision tunneled to her hand around the mug, the peripherals threatening to turn watery and dim. “Right,” she stood up, backing away from the table with her chin tucked down on her chest. She could take a hint; the grownups wanted to talk, so the kiddies had to go to bed. “Well, I guess I’ll be going now. It was nice meeting everyone. Thanks for the drink, Carver. See you around.” Never once did her face lift up high enough for anyone to see the tears forming.

“Wait, Hrodwynn,” Carver would have toppled over the bench in his haste to stand up, if Fenris hadn’t also been sitting on it. “I’ll… ah… I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s all the way to Darktown,” Hawke protested, “And we do have business to discuss…”

Hrodwynn interrupted him, interrupted both brothers as Carver looked about to start arguing. “No, I’ll be fine. Really. Thanks, but I’m a big girl. I can find my own way home. Done so for years. Honest. I don’t need anyone ‘babysitting’ me.”

It was a cheap shot, and really didn't hurt Hawke half as much as it hurt her, and made her look childish and foolish, but damn-it he could hurt her feelings by just sitting there! She practically raced out the door like a five-year-old after a scolding, but she didn’t care. She had her money. She had her pride. She didn’t need the others’ friendship or companionship. And she’d be damned before she let Hawke push her into tears in front of them.

The arse, she thought to herself, the poncey arse. There was no reason he had to be so mean to her. All he had to do was pay her, and she’d have left right after he arrived. But no, he had to sit and talk with Varric. He even had to make her wait for hours before he deigned to show up! If he wanted to be rid of her, why did he take so long doing it?

“Hrodwynn!” a voice called out, but she didn’t want anyone to see her, not with half her face damp from tears. She ducked around a corner to slip into the dark shadows and waited, scrubbing at her cheeks with the sleeve of her tunic.

Two forms marched down the center of the street, stopping just past where she was hiding. “She would’ve had to come this way, wouldn’t she?” Aveline asked in her authoritative tone.

“It is the most direct route to Darktown,” Fenris agreed. His eyes swept in the whole area, and for a brief and panicky moment, she thought he could see where she was hiding. She pressed deeper into the darkness, and didn’t breathe again until his gaze passed her hiding place. “But perhaps she lives in a different part of Darktown, somewhere on the outskirts. Still, I don’t think we need to be concerned about her.”

“She’s just a child.” Aveline started towards Hrodwynn’s nook.

“True,” he allowed, taking her arm to stop her and speak with her, “But she has lived in Kirkwall long enough to know how to take care of herself, especially if she resides in Darktown. I… I don’t think we’ll find her, not if she doesn’t want to be found. If anything, she will find us.”

Aveline sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, it breaks my heart, seeing a child like that, alone in the world, struggling to survive.”

Fenris thought of her several change of tunics, quite an accomplishment for someone who lived in the poorest neighborhood of Kirkwall. There were also all those things she had brought over to his place yesterday; the medicine alone had to be expensive. “She does alright for herself. I suppose we should let her go, and get back to Hawke.”

Aveline shook her head. “No, count me out of tonight’s discussion. I overheard enough when he was talking with Varric. I have a feeling this is one of those things of Hawke’s that, as a City Guard, I do not want to be involved in. Give him my regrets, would you? And tell him, he knows where he can find me, if he has need of me.”

“I will. Good night, Captain Aveline,” Fenris bowed respecfully to her. She gave a brief jerk of her head before turning away. He stood there, watching her march off until she was swallowed by the night and a turn of the street. Then he took a deep breath, walked over to the edge of the building, and leaned against it. To all outward appearances, he looked to be simply taking a break, catching his breath or resting his tired feet. But even from a few feet away, Hrodwynn could tell he was alert for danger.

“I never got the chance to thank you for helping me,” he said softly, his deep and rugged voice carrying no further than her ears.

She audibly swallowed. A little fearfully, she watched him tilt his head to look over his shoulder and directly at her. Her steps were hesitant as she moved out of the shadows, but her mind raced as she tried to figure out what he meant. “Thank me?” Maker, it was bad enough that he had known exactly where she was hiding, but did her voice have to squeak?

Fenris stared in fascination as the girl went from being perfectly hidden to slipping out into the open. He had only known she was there because he had seen her slip around the corner—he had taken a gamble that she was still close enough to hear him and not long gone. Watching her step forward hesitantly like a wild animal about to bolt, he took in every aspect of her appearance. Her cheeks were still pink, but now he didn’t think it was due to the alcohol like he had thought earlier. Her eyes continued to hold on to unshed moisture, and the sleeve of her tunic was slightly damp. Though she seemed upset and… fearful?… she faced him squarely; truly she was a brave young woman. “Yes, thank you for protecting my back, during the fight at Danarius’ mansion. It took courage to step into a swing like you did. Though next time,” he stared critically at her features, “You probably shouldn’t use your face as a shield.”

She gave a little laugh and sniff, glad that she could use her nose. “Yes, well,” her mind was humming, half relieved that he was only talking about the fight, and half irritated that he hadn’t mentioned her tending his wound. Then she froze, unable to speak or move, as his long fingers reached up and touched the bridge of her nose. She should have winced, like she had done earlier when her healer friend looked at it, but Fenris’ touch was so light, his fingertips barely brushed her skin.

“I’m glad to see your nose has healed with hardly a bruise.”

There was that loud, convulsing gulp strangling her throat again. “Ah, well,” damn, but she sounded dull. She quickly kicked her brain in gear and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “I know a pretty good healer, in Darktown, near where I live, a friend of mine. He looked at it and…” she suddenly stopped, not because she was rambling, which she was, but because she remembered what Fenris had said about his former master, and his distrust of mages. She thought that his hatred might extend even to those who used healing magic, though why he would want to be friends with Hawke puzzled her. Shrugging her shoulders and setting the random thoughts aside, she finished lamely, “You know.”

Amazingly, he didn’t seem upset, merely nodding at her explanation. “He has great skill, this healer friend of yours. Did you get those medicines from him?”

She blinked, feeling the color drain from her cheeks. Damn, so he did remember her coming uninvited into his home and stripping him down to his leggings and fondling his markings. Well, she thought to herself, at least she wasn’t blushing any longer. Her voice had abandoned her, however, and she could only nod.

“Then I would have you give him my thanks, both for the medicines for me, and for his care of you.”

He looked like he wanted to say something more. Her head was tilted, looking up at him, as he leaned over her, looking down, his fingertips on her cheek. Again she got that girlish giggly feeling, wondering if he was going to kiss her, and why would he kiss her, and what had she done to encourage him, and could she encourage him more…

“I should get back to Hawke and the others,” he said, his voice as deep as the shadows. “Take care of yourself, Hrodwynn.”

Venhedis, he thought to himself, seeing the tears returning to her eyes, but it was better for her if he pushed her away. He didn’t know what he was doing, or why, only that she would get hurt worse if he didn’t keep her at a distance. He turned, his steps leading back to the tavern while his thoughts remained behind. Hrodwynn was just a girl, a child really, though a talented rogue. He had no business feeling impulses towards her.

He had no business feeling impulses towards anyone. He was an escaped slave, still hunted by his former master. His freedom was a mockery. His life an inconvenience. And anyone close to him ran the risk of getting hurt…

…like getting their nose broken in a fight.

He finally managed to push all thoughts of Hrodwynn aside as he pushed the door open. The Hanged Man was loud, crushingly so, the atmosphere heavy and congested, compressing the sights and sounds and smells until his stomach threatened to roil. The others were still at their table, the two brothers noticeably ignoring each other, and everyone else trying to ignore their discomfort.

Fenris took his earlier seat, now much roomier, and said, “Aveline offers her apologies, but she doesn’t feel she would be appropriate for whatever… adventure… you wanted to make plans for tonight. She does say, you know where to find her, if you ever have need.”

Hawke waved it aside. “Yes, fine, she was always proud and a stickler for the rules.”

“What about Hrodwynn?” Carver pressed. “Did you find her?”

Fenris turned and regarded him coldly. “Not a trace,” he lied. He wasn’t sure what made him say that, but the thought of Carver pursuing Hrodwynn was unsettling. He felt the need to protect her from him.

“Don’t worry about her, Junior,” Varric offered. “I’ve heard a bit about Hrodwynn; she’s a survivor, if anything.”

“Can we please get back to the reason we’re meeting here tonight?” Hawke asked, exasperated. Carver crossed his arms but kept quiet, Isabela nodded and Merrill clapped her hands.

“Oh, yes, please. Though I can’t remember anymore what it was,” the Dalish elf bubbled.

Varric sighed, “Have another drink, Daisy. We’re here…” he stopped as the barmaid approached with a tray of ale. He waited for Hawke to pay for and pass out the next round of drinks. Then, when the barmaid had moved on, he cleared his throat and started again, “We’re here to talk about my brother’s expedition into the Deep Roads. Though Bartrand knows where we’re going, we still need to find an entrance into the Deep Roads, preferably one close to the Thaig. Now, I’ve heard rumors that there’s a healer in Darktown who might know of an entrance, but I’ve been having trouble getting anyone to tell me who or where he is.”

Fenris leaned back a little, one black eyebrow twitched upwards with dry amusement. “A healer in Darktown, you said?”

“Yes, do you know of him?”

He shook his head at Varric’s question. “No, but I think I know someone who does.”

“Who?” Hawke asked, his hand reaching partway across the table.

“You’re not going to like it,” he warned, but answered anyway.

* * *

Hawke bit off the curse. “You’re right; I don’t like this.”

Fenris wanted to smile. He liked seeing the little pout on Hawke’s lips, seeing the mage being taken down a notch or two. A little humility would do him good. “It would have been easier, if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to get rid of her last night.”

Hawke scoffed, “She’s a girl, Fenris. She’s too young for what we’re planning.”

“Yet she seems to be in possession of the very information we need.”

“No, just the easiest way to get it. Actually,” Hawke looked down a side street that would lead to Darktown. They had left word at Anso’s stall for Hrodwynn to come to Fenris’ mansion. They had been fairly sure she wouldn’t want to come, if they mentioned the Hanged Man, thinking that Hawke was looking for her. But she liked Fenris—much to Hawke’s chagrin—so there was a better chance she would show up if he made the request for her help. “Actually, I’m not sure she’s the best solution. I mean, there has to be others that know of this healer. And I am Ferelden; I should be able to talk with my fellow refugees and find out about him myself.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Fenris pointed out, “You’ve done quite well for yourself. Granted, you’re no nobleman, but neither are you squatting in the sewers. You’re no longer a Ferelden refugee. And they could resent you for it. No, Hawke,” he sighed, opening the door to the mansion, “She’s our best bet.”

“Fine,” he huffed, heading inside ahead of Fenris, “But I still don’t like it.”

No one said you had to like it, Fenris thought to himself, but he didn’t dare give it voice. Even after running away from his master, even after ensuring his freedom through mountains of bodies and rivers of blood, there were still some lines he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—cross.

The afternoon passed quietly, the two of them spending it in idle chatter. After his initial huff, Hawke calmed down, even turned on a bit of charm, which caught Fenris off guard. At one point, he almost found himself laughing. Laughing! He would liked to have excused himself then, asked Hawke to leave to allow himself a chance to clear his head, but he knew they would have to stay together, waiting there until Hrodwynn arrived.

If she came.

If she checked in with Anso today.

If she thought it was Fenris who wanted to see her.

If…

A knock sounded on the door, and Fenris jumped to his feet to answer it. The action was natural, even enthusiastic, yet he didn’t dare give it any thought to find out if his eagerness came from that long-engrained servitude he had yet to overcome, or for that breath of fresh air he needed. It was merely a knock on his door, so he should be the one to open it.

The doorway framed Hrodwynn, wearing the bright green tunic that matched her eyes. She looked like she had been just about to turn away, but seeing him answer made her turn back, the tips of her dark red hair brushing over the tops of her shoulders. “Um, hi.” The light tinge of pink returned to her cheeks as she tried to hold his gaze.

“Hello,” he gave a little nod, stepping aside and gesturing with his hand. “Thank you for coming, Hrodwynn. Please, come inside. There’s something we need to discuss with you.”

“‘We’?” she asked, crossing the portal. Looking around the interior, she saw that it was still trashed from the fight the other night. Apparently, Fenris didn’t do housekeeping, or didn’t care. Well, that wasn’t her problem. She was only there because Anso had sent a message that Fenris wanted to see her…

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes a moment, feeling her gorge rise at just the sound of Hawke’s voice. When she turned from Fenris towards him, however, her face was bright and open. “Oh, hello, Hawke. How are you?”

Maker, Hawke thought to himself, but she was making this hard, with that affected, girlish voice. Why didn’t she put her hair in pigtails and skip down the hallway? He was about to retort, when he caught Fenris’ eye over her shoulder. Right, they needed her help. No matter how infuriating or irritating she was going to be, he would be the better man and rise above their differences. “I’m fine, Hrodwynn, thank you for asking. And,” he stepped closer, turning on the charm and smiling warmly, “Thank you for coming.” He picked up both her hands, and kissed the backs of them, moving his soft lips a little against her skin.

“I, ah,” she glanced over her shoulder, feeling like she had just stepped into a trap that had sprung closed before she ever saw it. “I thought Fenris wanted to see me. So I came. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“That’s why we asked you to come here,” Fenris provided, “Because we didn’t think you’d want to see Hawke again, after last night.”

Hawke shot him a look, telling him with narrowed eyes to stop interfering. But Hrodwynn gave a short sort of laugh. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t have.” She looked back at him, but his features were schooled once more into a suave and warm smile. “Alright, fine, what do you want?”

“Just some information,” Hawke said, “Nothing too strenuous.”

“Oh,” she had been thinking he’d changed his mind, but of course he wouldn’t want her for this mysterious job of his. She tried to hide the disappointment and instead waited for him to continue.

“We need to find someone,” he said, still holding one hand and leading her to a couch. He sat down next to her, Fenris standing nearby, making her feel like she was back in that trap again, held captive between the two men.

“Someone specific?” she prompted, using the little exercise in deduction to distract her from the trapped feeling. “Let me guess, someone in Darktown?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “A healer. We don’t know who he is, only that he’s somewhere in Darktown, and Fenris mentioned you knew of a healer…” His words faded away, seeing as she was leaning back and trying to pull her hand out of his grip.

“Oh, no,” Hrodwynn shook her head, “No fucking way. No. Never. Not gonna happen!”

“Hrodwynn,” Hawke’s voice took a disapproving tone, turning fatherly on her, but Fenris stepped forward and also spoke.

“Please, Hrodwynn, it is important to us.” His deep voice seemed to have some sway with her, so Hawke decided to let him speak. “We only need some information from your friend. He may not even be the one we’re looking for…”

“There’s only one healer in Darktown, one who’d be harder to find, anyway,” she muttered darkly, crossing her arms and looking away.

“Which is why we need you to introduce us.” He knelt in front of her, much like she had when she tended his shoulder. “Please, we just want to talk with him, find out if he knows anything that could help us. We don't mean him any harm.”

She looked at him a moment, almost like she was trying to be swayed, her lips pursed, her brows scrunched. Eventually, however, she gave a little shake of her head. “No,” she whispered, “I can’t do it.” Fenris looked at her closely for any signs of subterfuge, but she seemed genuinely distraught, caught between protecting her friend and disappointing him.

Hawke, on the other hand, was less gracious. His patience was slipping, making him almost snap at her, “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t,” she retorted. “You don’t understand, you may not intend him harm, but others do. He’s not hiding in Darktown out of choice, you know, no one does. There are bad people after him, and even if you’re not one of them, you could lead those people to him.” She pushed herself off the couch and took a few steps away, needing a little space away from the other two. She reached a wall and turned back to them, a thumbnail between her teeth, her eyes staring blindly at the floorboards. Hawke acted like he wanted to say something, but closed his mouth again when Fenris signaled him to remain silent. Though he didn’t like it, he could see the girl and the elf had some sort of fledgling rapport growing, so he trusted Fenris to know how to handle her.

“If,” she started, pulling out of her thoughts and looking up at them again, “And I mean IF I agree to this, I could take a message to him, from you, asking him if he would agree to meet you. But I won’t take you to him. IF I deliver your message, and IF he agrees to see you, then you should be prepared to meet somewhere neutral. Not where he lives and works in Darktown.”

Hawke barely kept himself from rolling his eyes at the unnecessary, silly precautions. “Fair enough,” he agreed magnanimously, though inwardly he was underwhelmed by the extra drama, “Ask him if he’ll meet with us, at a place of his choosing. Tell him whatever he wants to know, about me, or Varric, or even Fenris. I promise to answer any other questions he has, when we meet in person.”

She nodded. “Alright. I’ll deliver your message. Where should I bring his answer to you? At the Hanged Man again?”

Hawke nodded. “It’s as good a place as any. I can spend a couple of hours there tomorrow afternoon, if that isn’t too soon.”

“That’ll be fine,” she agreed. When no one else spoke again, she looked between them and hummed. “Well, then, I’ll go ask him, and bring his answer to you.” She seemed fairly uncomfortable around Hawke still, and thinking the appointment was finished, she started heading towards the door.

“I’ll walk you out,” offered Fenris, falling into step by her side. Hawke, thankfully, left them alone, though he thought he could feel Hawke’s eyes on them.

Fenris stepped outside with her, fully closing the door behind them, a small sigh escaping his chest. Her brow grew a cute little wrinkle at his action, but he ignored it and focused on what he had to say. “Thank you, Hrodwynn. I realize Hawke has been less than gracious with you, but this is important to him, and he does appreciate your help.”

“Oh, well,” she glanced away, a little flustered by his praise, “I suppose, whatever Hawke’s planning, that you’re gonna be involved, too, so for your sake, I’ll make sure he has good information.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. That was twice in one day he had felt almost… amused. He squelched the impulse before it took root. “I’d appreciate that.”

She looked like she wanted to say or do something more, but the atmosphere between them quickly grew awkward. She opened her mouth a few times, made a funny little smile, but without another word she suddenly turned and disappeared into the evening crowds.

Hawke opened the door and said softly, “Follow her.”


	4. Mr. Snuggle's Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter was hard to write for some reason. I suppose it meandered too much. Forgive me for any OOC, but for some reason I keep playing with my favorite companions in game, and I haven’t gotten to know the others too well, so I've taken some liberties. I hope you enjoy it, anyway :’D

The voice behind Fenris was strong, confident, authoritative—and he had obeyed, he had taken a full step, away from the door and into the street. The suddenness of the movement, of taking an action that wasn’t of his own volition, slapped him in the face. He was no longer a slave. He didn’t have to obey every command without question. He stopped and tried to pretend that the step was only so he could turn and get a better look at Hawke, standing behind him in the now open doorway, his eyes over his shoulder scanning the crowd for the girl.

Still, it took every ounce of willpower to question, “What?”

“Follow her,” Hawke repeated, sounding distracted. “We can’t let her think she’s useful to us.” He gave up searching for the bright green tunic and dropped his eyes down to Fenris. He saw the elf’s eyebrows drawn downwards into a frown, and knew he was sounding too harsh, too bitter, too jealous…? True, he didn’t like the instant rapport between Fenris and Hrodwynn, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up. Instead, he used that connection to his advantage. “If she feels she’s a part of our group, she may try to come with us. And the Deep Roads are full of dangers we can’t imagine, definitely not a place for a little girl. She could get hurt if she comes with us, or worse.” He reached out and set a hand on his shoulder companionably, mindful of the strange and spiky armor. “For her own sake, it would be better to keep her out of this as much as possible. So follow her to this healer friend of hers. After she leaves, speak with him yourself. Convince him to help us, or to meet me in the Hanged Man tonight and I’ll convince him. But we have to keep Hrodwynn out of this, for her own good. She’s just a little girl, after all.”

She’s not a child, Fenris felt the impulse to argue, but he had control over himself once more and his disagreement remained silent. He could see the wisdom in Hawke’s words, so without any further sign of protest, he turned to pick up Hrodwynn’s trail.

She wasn’t hard to follow, her green tunic coming into sight after a few minutes. She wasn’t moving quickly, either, more meandering through the streets, stopping at a stall now and then to look at some brightly colored ribbon or bit of cloth. She even bought a yellow ribbon before she seemed done with her shopping for the day. Her pace picked up then, and he followed her down several streets and around a few corners, before they eventually made their way into Darktown.

The sun was just about to set. Down here beneath the city, however, it didn’t matter if it was day or night, as there was no view of the sky. The buildings were dismal, carved out of the very earth, some of them no more than a small hollow in a tunnel wall with a large board for the doorway. The people, mostly expatriate Fereldens, moved listlessly through what passed for a street, whether due to poor health or outright sickness or a lack of caring.

It grew harder to follow Hrodwynn, not only because her tunic didn’t show as bright without the sunlight, and her red hair faded to auburn in the dismal tunnels. It was also because she began to move as listlessly as the crowd, her steps slow and her course meandering like it had in Hightown, but without any rhyme or reason. She simply appeared, well, like every other Ferelden down there, and following her became more of a challenge.

He couldn’t say why, but his enjoyment increased with the difficulty.

The crush of bodies became another obstacle. Fenris quickly discovered there was a flow to the masses, and he was often battling his way upstream. Several times he had to steer to the side, squeeze against the stone and earth until the tides of movement changed, allowing him to inch forward once more. She seemed either impervious to the flow, or oblivious to it, slipping around eddies and avoiding rip currents like it was second nature to her. Twice the disparity of their progress caused her to slip from his sight, and left him with several minutes of intense searching until he spotted her hair or tunic or that yellow ribbon clutched in the fingers of her left hand. Still, that was only because she remained on the street. Had she ducked into a building while out of his sight, he would have lost her completely.

He was infused with adrenaline by the time they reached their destination, his lips parted to allow for his heavy breaths, his face slightly flushed with his increased heart rate. He almost felt disappointment when he saw her stop outside a door, fumbling for a moment at the latch. He had just begun to consider his current state, with that analytical part of his mind which never quite shut off and always viewed and reviewed his actions and reactions…

“This is my home.”

Hrodwynn’s sudden statement was surprising, and undoubtedly directed at him. She turned so he could see her face, and even in the dim torchlight, her bright green eyes glittered like emeralds, a striking contrast to the paleness of her skin. Dark red lips pouted, dark red brows scrunching in disapproval when he brazenly stepped up to her. “What are you doing? Following me?”

Venhedis, what could he answer? Outwardly, initially, yes, he had been following her. But now…?

“Hawke put you up to this, didn’t he?” she narrowed her eyes, taking his silence as admittance. She made a small face and glanced away before looking him directly in the eye. “Well, just so you know, this is where I live, alright? It’s late enough, my healer friend has probably closed his clinic for the day. Tell Hawke I’ll still talk with my friend, probably in the morning. And there’ll be plenty of time to meet him at the Hanged Man, if that’s what he’s worried about.”

No, that wasn’t what he was worried about, but again Fenris couldn’t find the words. He saw her expression change, from irritation to confusion to disinterest. She turned back to the door, and his hand reached out, intending to turn her face towards him again.

“I wanted to see you got home safely.”

The words just sort of… spurted from his mouth, awkward and unwarranted, and hung there in the space between them like his hand. She didn’t turn around, she didn’t see his hand. If anything she glanced further away before saying to the door, “Well, I’m home, safe, so thanks.” The wooden portal opened and closed to swallow her petite form, leaving Fenris alone in the street.

Automatically his steps began taking him away, his course set for the Hanged Man. Even as his eyes scanned for danger, his thoughts scanned the little episode. Somehow she had known he’d been following her. Somehow she had known—or made an educated guess—that Hawke had been the reason. Briefly he considered the possibility that, because she had discovered his surveillance, she had lied to him about arriving at her home rather than the healer’s shop. For some reason, however, he didn’t think she’d lie, not to him. She had stepped inside that building, without a knock to ask permission, or a call to alert someone to her presence. No, she had entered the building just like she lived there.

He pushed her out of his mind as he reached Lowtown. The sun was fully gone by this point, and there would no doubt be thieves and highwaymen lying in wait for any unsuspecting pedestrian. Not that he was unsuspecting, or posed any sort of tempting target, but he never took chances. Ever at odds with the world, with fate, Fenris remained on constant guard until he reached the Hanged Man.

The atmosphere inside the tavern was as it had been the night before, overwhelming and palpable. He ignored it as best he could and made his way over to Varric’s table. Briefly he wondered if the dwarf had rented the table as well as the room, holding court there once again, drinking and telling stories to any who would listen. The group was smaller tonight, the two Hawke siblings and Isabela, who was probably only there because she also rented a room. Fenris strode up to them and nodded curtly in greeting.

“Fenris! That was… quick,” began Hawke, his exuberant spirit dwindling away as he looked around them, “…and fruitless. Where’s the healer?”

Fenris took a seat, his face impassive. “She knew I was following her. Instead of going to see him, she simply went home.”

“She went…” he snapped his mouth shut, figuring it wouldn’t be any help stating the obvious. “And you believed her? She could have been lying, and how would you know!” That wasn’t the right thing to say either, Fenris’ expression growing even darker.

“I realized, once she knew I had been following her on your behest,” Fenris began, his harsh voice low like a growl, “That she could have said something like that to throw me off the scent. I don’t believe she would lie to me, however.”

“Why? Because she has a crush on you?” Carver took exception at Hawke’s taunt, but couldn’t manage more than a startled scoff. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed, Carver. I told you a kitten would be less fuss.”

He was so caught up in his brother’s reaction, he missed the expression that flickered across Fenris’ face. Varric saw it, but he wasn’t so deep in his cups as to give in to the impulse to point it out to everyone. Isabela started teasing Carver about his interest in the girl, which in turn fueled Hawke’s irritation.

Fenris sat quietly mulling over the idea. Did Hrodwynn have a crush on him? He thought she had just been nice the other day, coming to see him and tend a wound he had been too preoccupied to notice. But she had been more than eager to come to his home again today, thinking she would be seeing him and only him. Perhaps Hawke had a point; perhaps Hrodwynn did feel some sort of adolescent attraction towards him. He breathed a heavy sigh; such a thing would get her hurt. He’d have to find a way to discourage her. A broken heart over a childish crush would be a lot less painful than a knife through the heart for assisting an escaped slave.

Hawke gave up trying to interfere with Isabela teasing Carver about Hrodwynn. Rolling his eyes away from them, he finally noticed Fenris’ silence. He wondered what was going through his head, his expression so grim, so determined.

So strong.

He had felt his own attraction to Fenris from the very first moment. He was so lithe and graceful in battle, yet so awkward and unskilled in dealing with people. He found himself fascinated by the stark contrasts, intrigued by the dark mystery, and wondering about his tastes.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” he dismissed all the arguing with a flick of his fingers. “We’re going to have to trust Hrodwynn to speak to this healer friend of hers on our behalf. Hopefully, she can convince him to meet with us. Then,” he looked pointedly at Carver, “We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t invite herself along on our expedition. For her own safety, of course.”

Varric smirked into his mug. He suddenly had the urge to make sure that Hrodwynn came with them into the Deep Roads, if only to watch the interactions between Hawke and Carver and Fenris. And he could do it, too; all it would take would be a well-placed word or two with his brother. Sure, Bartrand could be obstinate and insufferable, and Varric hadn’t handled the situation with Hawke in the best manner, but he knew he could get Hrodwynn into their little group, as long as she had something useful and unique to offer.

He glanced at Hawke’s smug expression, Carver’s pout, and the brooding look on Fenris’s face. Oh, yes, this was going to make for an interesting story.

At the very least, it would be fun.

* * *

“Anders?” Hrodwynn asked, dangling the yellow ribbon just out of the kitten’s reach, the tiny, pink padded paws batting at empty air. It was late, the clinic closed and the two of them enjoying a small supper. Theirs was a simple arrangement, started after she had ducked inside one evening to find a warm place to spend a winter night. They had passed the time talking, and by morning had a sort of understanding worked out. She brought in the coin, made sure he ate every day and got some sleep every night—in other words, didn’t work himself to death trying to save every sick person in Darktown. In turn, he gave her the use of the small loft over his clinic—and if anyone ever came asking after her, he’d say he didn’t know anyone who fit her description. It wasn’t ideal, but it kept her off the streets at night. And, thankfully, he didn’t comment on her legally dubious activities, and she didn’t comment on his fondness for cats.

“Anders,” she repeated, looking across the table at him, “How can some aches be loud, and others quiet?”

He blinked and set aside his spoon, seriously considering her question. “Well, I suppose, an ache could be heard if it came from a swollen joint, one that might make a popping noise when moved. Or if the afflicted person moaned when feeling the ache, or if the ache was severe enough to inhibit their movements, say, causing them to drop things or stumble into furniture. By contrast, a quiet ache would be simply felt by the person, and no one else would know about it. Does this answer your question?”

She let her hand lower a little too far, and the kitten managed to steal the ribbon from her fingers. “I… guess so…”

He heard the lingering confusion in her words, and decided to pursue the subject. “I’m curious. What was the context of this question?”

She sighed, watching but not entertained by the kitten trying to run off with the brightly colored strip of fabric, tangling his legs and attracting the attention of the other kittens. “Someone mentioned an ache the other day.”

“Oh, one of these new friends of yours?” he guessed, referring to the people she had told him about in the Hanged Man, the ones who wanted to meet him.

She hummed an agreement, nodding as she picked her spoon back up, pushing around the chunks of vegetables in the savory stew. “We were just talking, exchanging names and the like, and one of them asked if my ache was silent.”

It took a full ten count for Anders to figure it out. “‘H’!” he exclaimed so suddenly it made her jump, lifting wide green eyes up from the wrestling kittens. “They asked if the ‘H’ was silent.” At her dumbfounded nod, he felt like slapping his forehead. He hadn’t known her for more than a few months, but it had been long enough for him to figure out there were some subjects Hrodwynn was sensitive about, and her lack of education was one of them. Calming himself, he patted his robes and searched his pockets, hoping to find a stylus and parchment. Giving up, he dipped his finger in the stew and, in very large lines, began drawing on the tabletop. “They were talking about your name,” he explained, his tone of voice as gentle as he could manage, pointing out the letters as he continued. “It starts with the letter ‘H’, but there’s no ‘H’ sound in your name, ha, ha. Instead the sound starts with the second letter, ‘R’, r-r-r-r-rodwynn. Understand? The ‘H’ is silent.”

No, he hadn’t handled that well, judging by the pink color flooding across her cheeks. Quickly he decided to change the subject, wiping up the gravy with the sleeve of his robe. “So, ah, tomorrow, are you sure about this?”

She took a deep breath, standing up and bringing her bowl to the wash basin, giving herself time to get the heat off her cheeks. “If you’re willing to meet them, then yes, we should take precautions. I don’t really know this Hawke or his friends. They seem nice,” she tipped the last of her stew into a bowl for the mother cat and all her kittens. He followed her, gently shooing a kitten out of the way with the side of his boot, “For the most part, and I don’t think they’re working for the Wardens, or they probably wouldn't have been looking for work from Anso.” She took his bowl from him and did the same, only the kittens wouldn’t move out of the way, so some of the stew ended up on the tops of some heads. “But Hawke wasn’t interested in me until after I sort of mentioned to Fenris that I knew a healer in Darktown. So maybe they’ve heard about the bounty, and decided to turn you in to the Templars for the reward. Then again, maybe Hawke does have legitimate business with you. Either way, just stick to the plan; you’ll be safe because no one will be expecting it.”

“You don’t trust Hawke, do you.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered, “No, it’s not that I don’t trust him. I just don’t like him. And I get the impression he doesn't like me. I suppose it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me, but since he wants to bring one of my friends into this…”

Anders watched her green eyes glitter like emeralds, hard and regal. He appreciated her loyalty, and again blessed whatever fate or power that had given her the impulse to find shelter in his clinic one night last winter. And he feared the day he ever found himself at odds with such a determined and resourceful young woman.

“It’s late, you should go to bed,” he suggested. “I’ll do the washing up.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but had already started turning away, more than willing to leave him to it. “You’ll go to bed afterwards and get some sleep, too, won’t you?”

“I promise,” he nodded. “No more work tonight. Now, go to bed. And don't forget to take your ribbon to add it to your collection.” He leaned over and placed a brotherly kiss on her forehead. She gave him a small smile and started for the ladder to the loft, pausing to pick up her ribbon—abandoned in favor of the stew. “Just a moment, don’t forget your kittens. I, ah, can’t remember which ones are yours.”

“That’s alright. They know which ones they are. Watch.” She had stopped at the ladder and tapped the side of her boot against it, making a noise like she was climbing upwards. Two kittens pulled themselves away from the furry pile around the empty feeding bowl and bounded towards her. She gave a little laugh, reached down to scoop them up into one arm, and then began climbing the ladder for her loft.

Anders listened to her moving around up there as he began washing up. He was glad she was in his life, seeing her as the little sister he never had, and enjoying her companionship and loyalty. He did feel sorry for her, however; not knowing all that much about her past, he could tell she had never had much of a childhood, and though she fiercely insisted she was old enough to make her own way in life, there were little things she did—like her collection—that told of this denied childhood.

He sighed and set the last dish aside, thinking he just might mix up one or two batches of healing potion before going to bed.

“Good night, Anders,” her voice called out from over his head. She must have heard him finish with the dishes, and decided to remind him of his promise. He looked at the ceiling, as if he could look through it and see the girl, lying on her bed amidst the bright bits of ribbons and remnants.

“Good night, Hrodwynn,” he called back. Turning away from his work, he blew out the candles and headed for his own bed.

* * *

“She did say she would be here,” Hawke harrumphed, sitting next to Varric, his arms crossed. His mood was cross, too, something that had Fenris instantly on edge.

“You said she’d meet you here in the afternoon,” Carver reminded him, his tone slightly exasperated, “And it’s barely midday. Give her a few hours at least before you get all pissy.”

Hawke was about to retort, but he realized in time his little brother was trying to get him riled up. Like he needed any more excuses. He uncrossed his arms, just to make a point, and began drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

The door opened and everyone turned to see who had entered. Their eyes quickly grew disinterested at yet another commoner, hood up and shoulders hunched to ward against the chilly day. Fenris couldn’t say why he automatically followed the newcomer’s movements, taking careful note of where he sat with his back to the wall. Thinking about it, he realized it probably had more to do with Hawke’s mood, than any real sign of danger. Hawke was agitated; and it was a long-ingrained behavioral pattern for Fenris to be in a higher state of alertness when Danarius had been in such a state of mind…

He didn’t want to admit why Hawke would cause such a reaction within him, preferring to think it was because Hawke was a friend, and any friend who was upset or in danger would cause the same sort of hyper-awareness and protectiveness.

Still, he forced himself to relax, to lean back a little on the bench, and make his eyes scan the whole tavern. The conversation of the others washed over his ears, a low kind of hum in the back of his head. He heard what they talked about: the jokes and stories Varric told, the discussion Isabela had with Merrill regarding her previous conquests, and the petty verbal bickering between Hawke and his brother. Outwardly he made small noises when appropriate, but inwardly he focused all his attention on letting go of that premonition of danger.

Varric and Isabela were in the middle of a discussion, possibly about daggers—Fenris wasn’t sure as he had missed that part of the conversation. Apparently Carver had, too, as he suddenly coughed into his mug, his face turning red. The main door opened and Hrodwynn walked in, still in that bright green tunic that matched her eyes so closely. She glanced through the room, smiling when she found them at their normal table. Briefly Fenris wondered why she had looked around; surely she knew where they sat every day.

“There you are!” she said as brightly as her tunic, approaching them. “No Aveline today?” Her brow furrowed a little, as if the lack of the city guardsman upset her. She took a seat next to Carver, whose welcoming smile was warm enough to cover his brother’s cold reception.

“She’s not interested in today’s business. And you’re late,” accused Hawke, eyeing her across the table and past the end of his pointing finger. “I have better things to do, than wait around all day for you to play at being a messenger service.”

“I… ah… you asked to meet here during the afternoon, and I got here before evening, didn’t I?”

“I don’t need your cheek, young lady,” he shook the finger at her.

“And I don’t need your scolding,” she countered. “I did this as a favor to you, remember? And no one said I had to help you. In fact, for all I know, this could be a Templar trap, set to capture my friend.” She stood up abruptly, like she was ready to leave that moment.

“Templars?” Hawke asked, genuinely confused by her sudden accusation. “What do you mean? I know you mentioned some ‘bad people’ were after your friend, but I thought you meant thieves or cutthroats, not… Templars?” The look on her face was answer enough. He rolled his eyes and turned to the dwarf next to him. “Damn it, Varric, you didn’t mention there’d be any Templar entanglements.”

“I’d only heard rumors,” answered Varric, trying to protest his innocence, “That there was a healer in Darktown who might know of some forgotten entrances into the Deep Roads. Nothing about any Templars…”

“Wait,” Hrodwynn held up her hand, retaking her seat. “You mean, you’re not working for the Templars? Or the Wardens? You really are only interested in some information?” She had hoped that was the case, Hawke being a mage and all, but he might have been working undercover as an apostate or something. She had to make sure, first, before Anders walked into a trap.

Fenris noted that the man in the hood had stood up, but relaxed again when it appeared he was going upstairs, not to their table. He also noted that everyone at the table took notice of his movement—everyone but Hrodwynn. She resolutely kept her eyes glued on Hawke’s face, making her lack of reaction remarkable. Fenris glanced towards the stairs, but the man had reached the top landing and disappeared around the corner. He turned his attention back to her, watching her even closer than before. He had thought she was trustworthy, but he had been wrong before.

Hawke was having entirely different thoughts. Damn, but he hadn’t wanted Hrodwynn to figure any of this out. He would have cursed Varric’s loose tongue, but the dwarf grinned unrepentantly at him, making him think the slip had been on purpose. “Like Varric said,” he began, hating the idea but knowing he had no choice, “We only want to talk with the healer. We don’t know if he’s even the healer with the information we need. So, no, Hrodwynn, this is not a trap.” He leaned closer, “Now tell us, what did your friend say? Did he agree to meet us?”

She was silent for a few seconds, before she looked around at all the others at the table. “Can we talk in private?”

“Anything you tell me, I’ll be telling them as soon as I can, you know.”

She set her chin. “That’s up to you. I made a promise, to speak with you in private. The sooner that’s done, the sooner I’m out of your hair.” She knew that last part would get him, and predictably Varric spoke up.

“You could use my room. Just at the top of the stairs.”

Hawke looked like he wanted to argue, but as she hoped, the thought of getting rid of her quickly was too tempting. “Fine,” he sighed, a little overly dramatic for the situation, “Let’s go get this over with.”

He pushed away from the table, and she followed obediently at his heels, neither one noticing the way Fenris kept his eyes trained on them.

Varric’s room was cozy and somewhat messy, giving the impression that he had lived here for some time. Hrodwynn didn’t touch anything, only stepping inside a few paces. Hawke walked to the center of the room before turning and crossing his arms over his chest. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he started tapping his foot, the stance was so comical.

“Well?”

“His name is Anders,” she began, still standing near the door. “Well, that’s not his name, it’s where he’s from, but that’s what everyone calls him. He’s… ah… a healer, a mage actually, and a Warden, but he’s on his own now. So you understand there are quite a few people looking for him, and very few who are his friends.”

“Yes, I got that impression already. Has he agreed to meet with me?”

She kept herself from rolling her eyes, barely. “In a moment.”

“You’ll tell me in a moment?” he repeated, incredulous. “Why can’t you tell me now.”

“No, I mean…” she stopped, tilting her head to listen at the knock on the door. Three sharp taps, followed by two slow thuds. She flashed a smile at Hawke and said, “I’ll let him explain.” Two quick steps and she was at the door, holding it open for a hooded man.

“Who are you?” asked Hawke, angry enough over his conversation with Hrodwynn to be flustered with the presence of an unusual visitor.

The man pulled back his hood, revealing a strong face framed with strawberry blond hair and at least three day’s worth of stubble. “She was supposed to have told you my name by now.”

“I did,” she protested, closing the door firmly. “Hawke, this is Anders, the healer you were asking about. Anders, this is Hawke. I thought you were going to wait a little longer.”

Anders shrugged, “I saw someone I recognize—and trust—sitting at the table with him. I figured, if Isabela sees something in this Hawke fellow, he can’t be as bad as you’ve made him out to be.”

Hrodwynn groaned and hid her face behind a hand, but was saved from any sort of retaliation from Hawke. A pathetic mewl spilled out of one of Anders’ pockets, and he coughed. “Excuse me. Would you like a kitten?”

“A what?” Hawke blinked at him.

Anders pulled two kittens out of two pockets. “A kitten. Mr. Snuggles surprised me a few weeks ago. Well, I suppose I should call him Mrs. Snuggles now. Or Ms. Snuggles. Never did figure out who the tom was. Anyway, I have several kittens I’m trying to find homes for. Would you like one?”

Hawke’s eyes were wide as he looked at the fuzzy fur balls hanging in his hands. “Ah, no, thank you, I’m, ah, allergic to cats.”

“Oh,” Anders sounded disappointed, but not upset.

“Why don’t you give them to Hrodwynn?”

She laughed, “I already have two. But I’ll take these and see if I can find them a home while you two talk. Come on, kitties, maybe the bartender has a problem with mice.” She continued to coo and coddle them as she walked to the door to let herself out. She was confident in Anders’ opinion of Hawke. She still didn’t like the arse, but if Anders knew Isabela, and Isabela trusted Hawke, then she supposed she could trust Hawke not to turn him in to the Templars or the Wardens.

“Sorry about that,” Anders said after the door had closed, “But Hrodwynn is a little overly dramatic at times.”

“So I’ve noticed,” hummed Hawke. “I take it this subterfuge was her idea, all the privacy and cloaks and secret knocks.”

It wasn’t a question, but Anders nodded anyway. “There are several people after me—most of them want me dead or tranquil—so yes, this was her plan to keep me safe, give me an option to back out and get away if it was a trap. She means well, truly she does.” He draped his cloak over the back of a chair. “Hrodwynn is a fiercely loyal friend, a good thing to have at your back, even if she’s over zealous at times. Now, what was it you wanted to talk with me about? If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with so I can get back to my clinic.”

Hrodwynn didn’t hear any of their conversation, intent on making her way back to the common room, and maybe sitting beside Carver for a little while. She had closed the door and gotten to the top of the stairs when she came face to face with Fenris. It was so sudden and unexpected, that she dropped one of the kittens to the floor. “Oh!”

“Hrodwynn,” he said, his voice deep and dangerous, sending shivers down her spine. The dropped kitten, after shaking off the surprise, promptly began pawing at Fenris’ ankle. He looked down, slightly confused, at the kitten trying to climb his leg.

“Fenris!” she said, losing all sense of composure. She bent down to pick up the kitten, at the same time he did, and she had to stop quickly before they bumped heads. She let him pick up the kitten, holding it carefully in his gauntleted hands.

“What…?” he couldn’t find the words to finish voicing the question. He stared distractedly at the kitten, pawing and gnawing on his hands, not intimidated at all by the eery streaks of lyrium marking his palms, or the razor sharp points at the ends of his fingers.

“Hey, she likes you.”

He pulled his eyes up from the warm, soft bundle in his hands to pin her with his stare. “Where’s Hawke?”

“In there,” she thumbed over her shoulder, “Talking with Anders.”

“The man in the cloak.”

She looked up at him finally, and felt a jolt of apprehension at the look on his face. Quickly she tumbled through an explanation, just to ease his worries. “Yes. I had Anders wait to make sure this wasn’t a trap, but he said he saw Isabela—I guess they know each other—anyway, he decided Hawke was alright, if she thought so, so now they’re talking. Want one?”

He hadn’t followed half of that. He latched on to the last thing she had said and asked, “Want one what?”

“Kitten,” she gestured with the one she was holding to the one he was holding. “I bet that mansion you’re living in has a few mice; you could use a good mouser. Their mother’s a champion mouser in Darktown.”

“I’ll, ah, consider it,” he tried to evade, but he did start following her downstairs, distracted by the kitten’s apparent and instant fondness for him, its little body practically vibrating with its purrs.

“Fenris, I see you’ve finally gotten a little pussy!”

Isabela’s voice rang through the common room, making every eye turn to stare at them. “What? No, just Hrodwynn. I mean, it’s her pussy… kitten.”

Carver’s mouthful of ale went straight out his nose. Varric roared with laughter, slapping Carver’s back to help him spit out the last of the ale. Isabela’s eyes danced, more than satisfied that she had flustered Fenris. She had flustered Hrodwynn, too, judging by the bright pink spots on her cheeks.

“I don’t get it,” Merrill chirped, “What’s so funny? Oh, wait, you don’t mean…” She stared at Fenris and Hrodwynn, took in the matching kittens and awkward expressions. “They wouldn’t have had enough time for that, would they?”

Carver’s face was red, he was trying so hard to catch his breath. Varric sighed, “Have another drink, Merrill.”


	5. Seek and Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments; they are encouraging.  
> As for Hrodwynn, just hang on—I’ll be clearing up a little of the mystery around her in the next chapter or two. Yes, I know, I’m a tease ;’D  
> Also, why didn’t anyone tell me Kitten was already taken? I was playing the game this past week, switching up the companions and listening to their party dialogue, and Isabela called Merrill Kitten! Damn it! It was such a good nickname, too. Oh, well…

Hrodwynn was slipping through the streets of Darktown, her dark clothing blending in with the dark shadows. That was one thing she liked about living there—day or night there were plenty of shadows in which to hide. She turned a corner, ducked down a twisting, narrow lane, broke out into the open on a larger street, backtracked half a block, and slipped into the murkiness around a doorway. She kept her back to the alley she had just come from, the pale skin of her face covered with her dark red hair, and counted to thirty.

“Damn!” she heard the curse, spoken softly, just as she reached twenty-seven. She kept her face hidden and strained her ears to listen. “Any idea which way the bitch went?”

“No, sir,” several voices responded at once. She resisted the urge to smile confidently. She wasn’t safe yet; any one of those mercenaries might still spy some sign of her. She kept still, barely daring to breathe, as she knew the eye was attracted to movement.

Their leader snarled something, but it was unintelligible, made so by distance and the sound of their heavy boots pounding the ground. They were running the other way, thinking she had continued on course, not expecting her to double-back. She didn’t dare risk moving yet, however; she’d been caught once when someone sent most of his men in one direction, and a couple in the other direction just in case. Sure enough, another fifteen count and two of the men came strolling down the street, trying to look like they belonged there.

Now she smiled coldly. Fucking private guards, she thought to herself, thinking they’re so much better than the rest of us, just because they have steady employment. She watched them pass her hiding place, oblivious to her presence, oblivious to the area into which they were walking. They’d figure out soon enough, once they saw the sulphureous-yellow hues of the chokedamp. They might even have time to make it out, before they succumbed to the haze and began coughing. She pulled a scarf out from a pouch and wrapped it around her face. Carefully she inched out from the doorway until she could see the street, empty of any more of her pursuers. Then she started after the two.

She passed them just as they began coughing and stumbling back towards cleaner air, their eyes watering, their prey slipping past. She raced through the heavy, cloying haze, knowing that even if they did see her, they’d never be able to follow her. Not in time to see where she was going, anyway. She heard them shout, but whether it was because she had been spotted, or they were simply trying to find each other in the gloom, she didn’t stop to find out.

Around a corner and up a short flight of stairs, and she was clear of the chokedamp. She pulled the scarf down from her face as she panted, hands on her knees. She waited to see if she’d been followed after all, but no one appeared behind her. Smiling to herself, she straightened up and headed for Anders’ clinic.

As soon as she opened the door and saw who was there, she had the thought that she would prefer to be back outside, running through the chokedamp.

“Hrodwynn, glad to see you made it home in one piece. I was beginning to grow concerned.” Anders’ voice was actually sounding a little cheery, which she found odd, however welcomed. But thinking about who was visiting him, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I, ah, ran into an old friend on the way home,” she lied. “Had to stop and chat for a few minutes. Hello, Hawke.” Her voice went flat, even though she tried to smile and act gracious. “You haven’t gotten sick or anything, have you?”

He smiled just as coldly; if only she didn’t sound so hopeful. “No, no, just visiting with Anders here.”

She nodded, taking his lie at face value, neither one fooled by the other. “How’s your brother, Carver?” She was trying to play nice, like she was supposed to, asking about his family and friends, acting polite. But just the sight of him was making her blood boil. If only he didn’t treat her like a child…

There was a knock on the door, so sudden that all three turned in unison.  It continued, a relentless pounding as voices joined it. “Open up! In the name of the City Guard, open the door!”

“What the…?” Hawke’s eyes widened for a moment, his jaw dropping and stopping his words. He looked at Anders, wondering if the Templars had found him out, and if he could do anything to help. He'd rather not get involved, being an Apostate himself, but if he had to...

“Bloody shite,” sighed Anders, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead and turning towards Hawke. “Take off your tunic.”

“What?” he repeated. There was a sound off to the side, and he turned to see Hrodwynn had disappeared—as well as the ladder that led to her loft. All that remained were her two kittens, mewling around where the base of the ladder was supposed to be. He looked up, but there was no sign of the opening in the ceiling tiles. Damn, she was quick on her feet—he had to give her that.

“Take off your tunic,” Anders repeated, helping him get started by undoing the fastenings on his coat, “And sit on the table. Let me do the talking, understand?”

Hawke’s brain finally kicked into gear, realizing what Anders meant, and he grudgingly complied. His fingers took over from Anders, allowing him to step back. “I take it this happens often?” His tone was disapproving, sounding like a father who was finding out about a disobedient child.

“Later,” was all the explanation Anders would give. He was in a hurry, only waiting to see that Hawke had finished taking off his coat before he went to answer the door and stop the endless pounding. “Yes, alright, I’m answering. What is this?”

Three men burst into the building, several more outside and, by the sound of it, bursting into other nearby buildings. Of the men who entered the clinic, the one in the middle and the leader judging by the rank on his uniform, spoke to Anders. “We have tracked a fugitive from the law to this neighborhood. In the name of the Viscount, you will allow us to search these premises.”

“Please, sirs,” Anders complained, though mildly. He knew they had no right to search his clinic—in the name of the Viscount indeed—but he also knew he had no way to disprove their claim or deny them access, “This is a clinic, a place of healing. Barging in here like this will upset my patient.” He waved his hand behind him without turning around.

The leader harrumphed when he spied Hawke sitting on the table, but refused to back down. “Me and my men are going to search this building. You just ignore us and go back to treating your patient. He looks like he needs it.”

Anders blew an exasperated breath out of his nose, but he had no way to defy or get rid of them. Besides, he was confident the guards would soon be frustrated and leave. In all the time Hrodwynn had been living with him, no one had ever found the ceiling panel leading to her loft. He turned back to Hawke, determined to ignore the guards and pretend to treat his ‘patient,’ and stopped dead in his tracks.

Hawke was sitting stiffly on the table, a pained expression on his face. His left hand wrapped around his chest to grip his right upper arm, a large and bright purple bruise swelling the whole of his shoulder. He lifted watering eyes up to Anders and prompted, “You, ah, you can set it, right, healer?”

For several precious seconds he stood and stared, unable to fathom how such an injury had occurred so quickly. Surely Hawke wouldn’t have broken his shoulder, just to protect Hrodwynn. He visually surveyed the damage, from the fresh discoloration to the mild swelling to the hurt shoulder sagging lower than the other.

“Healer?” Hawke asked again, giving him impetus to pull his gaze away from the marred flesh. Hawke’s eyes willed him to understand, to catch on and get moving. Minutely and out of sight of the soldiers, the fingers of his right hand made a small, circular gesture, like he was trying to encourage or get Anders to hurry up and…

“Oh! Ah, of course, just a moment,” Anders muttered, getting his legs working again.

From her loft, Hrodwynn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She was peering through a crack between the tiles, her room dark so nothing but shadow would be seen if anyone bothered to look up. But looking down, she could see a good part of the clinic. She had watched Hawke strip off his tunic, and had to stifle her gasp at the sight of the bruise—she hadn’t noticed any indication of the pain he must be feeling. Though she was fairly sure he overacted the part now, wincing and flinching as Anders palpitated the area, she did feel a little sympathy for him pull at her heartstrings—or perhaps that was apprehension when she realized she had left her kittens below.

“Maker’s Breath! Do you have to keep touching it?” she heard Hawke grumble, his curses just loud enough to drown out the sad mewling.

“Finish your work, healer,” the leader said in a bored tone, turning away from Anders’ bedchamber. “We’re done here. And give the poor man a draught or something, would you? He’s got to be in pain to swear like that.”

“Just see yourselves out, and let me do my work, would you?” Anders snipped back. The leader harrumphed again but turned towards the door without another word.

“Sir,” one of the guards called out, stopping him as his hand landed on the doorknob. “What’s with these cats?”

Anders looked over his shoulder to see Hrodwynn’s kittens still searching for a ladder that wasn’t there. They hissed at the soldier’s boot when he tried to shoo them away from the spot, pouncing on the armored foot in an effort to beat away the invading appendage. Curious, the soldier knelt down and began looking around the area. If he wasn’t distracted soon, he just might spy the scuff marks left by the ladder…

“They’re cats. They’ve probably cornered a mouse or something behind the chest.” Hawke’s explanation was delivered calmly and reasonably, giving Hrodwynn cause to bless him.

“Ah, yes, they’re from my cat’s first litter,” Anders added, catching on, “Snuggles, the best mouser in all of Darktown. Only those two kittens are left.”

“My sister’s got a mouse problem in her shop,” the guard continued, his fingertips stroking one of the furry bodies. It seemed torn between preening over the attention, and searching for that ladder. “She could use a good mouser. What do you say?”

Anders blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“How much for a kitten?” the guard repeated, standing up and holding out the kitten dangling awkwardly in his hands, looking down at its sibling stalking across the floor after them. “I can’t afford much, mind you, but my sister could really use a cat, if it’s as good of a mouser as you claim.”

“I’m sure the healer will sell you the kitten for a reasonable price,” the leader sighed, already bored with the subject and impatient to move on. “Just pay the man and let’s go. There are still more buildings to search.”

“How much?” the man spoke softer, already fishing a few coins out of his pouch. He seemed in a hurry, no doubt reluctant to incur his commander’s wrath should he take too long buying the kitten. He had ten coppers in his palm with one shiny silver, and was hunting around for more when Anders decided to just get him out of there.

“Ah… o-o-one silver,” Anders stuttered.

He gave a relieved smile to Anders and held his hand out, allowing him to pluck the mentioned coin from him, as his other hand was full of a writhing kitten. The little fur ball must have finally realized it was being taken away, or at the very least was not going to be returned to the ground any time soon, and was scrambling and clawing at the gloved fingers. “Here now, puss, no need to get upset. I know, you’ll miss your brother. But I’m taking you to a new home, with lots of lovely little mice to catch. You’ll forget about this place and be happy in no time.”

The door closed, shutting out the guards and the crying kitten.

The two men were quiet for a count of ten before Anders let out a relieved sort of huff somewhere near a laugh. “I thought we were done for, the way the kittens were looking for that damn ladder.”

“I was worried long before that,” agreed Hawke, his tone light as he picked up his tunic. “I thought my posing as your patient had been your idea. But all you did was stand there and stare…” His voice trailed away as he saw that Anders was doing just that, standing and staring, again. The corner of his mouth turned upwards, a little slyly, and he began to very slowly put his arms through the sleeves of his tunic. “Like what you see?”

Anders shook himself. Hawke wasn’t like other mages, who focused solely on their magical talents and ignored their physical states. Anders realized he had been staring at him, or at his body rather—at the light dusting of black hair mimicking a shadow down the center of his chest, at the muscles that rippled across his stomach as he lifted his tunic up to slip over his head… He coughed and tried to look away, but there was nothing to keep his attention, and Hawke seemed intent on moving ever-so-flirtatiously.

He hopped off the table and walked up to stand a little too close to Anders, as he tucked the hem of his tunic into the front of his leggings. They were nearly the same height, Hawke maybe a fraction of an inch taller, but with both men wearing boots he couldn't tell for sure. Anders caught himself staring again, this time into a pair of light brown—almost amber eyes. They were warm and glowing softly, like a single candle flame in a darkened room, beckoning him closer.

“You… ah…” he took half a step back, but Hawke pursued, “Your shoulder… would you like anything for it?”

“Got it during a little dust up in Lowtown, when I was body-slammed into the floor by a brute of a man.” Hawke lifted and shrugged it in a languid circle. “It’s a little stiff,” he admitted, “But nothing I haven’t handled before. I like that little twinge of pain; it lets you know you’re alive.”

He couldn’t entirely be sure, but it seemed they might not be talking about his shoulder any longer.

Hrodwynn took that moment to scrub at the dampness in her eyes and open the ceiling tile. She might have scraped the ladder a little too loudly against the edge, dropped it a little too harshly onto the floor. She didn’t care about the noise, neither did she care or notice the guilty start Anders gave away from Hawke. Her thoughts were on her kittens, how stupid she had been to leave them behind when she went into hiding. The remaining one was slinking around, crying for his sibling, pawing at her leg once she was within reach. She bent over and scooped it up, holding it to her face for his comfort, or so she told herself.

Anders cleared his throat. “Ah, Hrodwynn, I-I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “I… I didn’t know what else to do, he was determined to take the kitten, I had no reason to refuse him, if you had only…” No, he shouldn’t have tried to blame her for losing one of her kittens, as he could tell by the bright redness on her cheeks that she was already blaming herself.

“It’s only a cat,” she said, lifting her chin bravely, daring either of them to point out the last few tears still clinging to her lashes. Still, she took her remaining kitten and walked over to the hearth where she began poking around the embers.

“You should go, Hawke.”

Anders spoke so quietly, he wasn’t sure he had heard him at first. “We weren’t done discussing my proposition.” His objection was couched in a mild tone, both of them feeling a little awkward around her right then. “I need you…”

“I’m not leaving my clinic!” Anders spoke over his words, perhaps a little too harshly. Both of them could tell Hrodwynn was listening to every single word even though she remained staring at the fire.

Hawke took a heavy breath, determined not to give up. He reached back for his coat lying on the table. “Look, I’m a Force Mage, not a Spirit Healer. And I’ve been in enough scrapes already, I’ve come to realize that it’s a good idea to have a healer along on these little excursions. Getting hurt inside the city is no problem; there’s always help near at hand. But out there, if one of us gets hurt, we can’t send someone running down the street to the local merchant’s shop to buy a healing potion or poultice.” He tried to calm his voice again, setting a hand on Anders’ shoulder, “I know, I understand, your clinic is important to you. I wouldn’t ask you to leave it, even for a little while, if I didn’t need you so badly.”

Anders tried hard not to turn and look into those warm eyes. He managed to remain facing away, but he did turn his head far enough to ask, “If it’s that important to you, you could always take Hrodwynn.”

“What?!” It was hard to say who spoke first, both Hawke and Hrodwynn staring at him with equally incredulous expressions.

Anders sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “It works out perfectly. Hrodwynn, you need to be scarce for a time, if those men earlier were any indication…”

“It was a misunderstanding,” she protested, “Nothing was taken! They weren't even city guards, but private ones.”

“And Hawke, you need a skilled surgeon. Hrodwynn’s helped me in the clinic ever since she moved in. She’s gotten very good at it. You know yourself; she’s fixed you up before.”

“She never…” he stopped, staring at her. She had turned away, hiding her reddening cheeks from him. Damn but the girl blushed a lot.

“It wasn’t you?” Anders asked, only slightly confused but not at all deterred, “Your brother, then, or one of the others who fought with you that night you all met. After I healed her nose, she insisted on going back out again. She took a small surgery kit and some healing herbs, saying someone needed a wound closed. I assumed it had been someone in your party.”

Hawke’s eyes bored holes through her skull, but she refused to look up at him. He knew he hadn’t been hurt enough to need stitches, nor had Carver nor Varric. That left… “Fenris?”

She didn’t speak, but her silence was answer enough.

“He never said anything about being hurt. Not to me.”

She shrugged, finally daring to look at him, “He wouldn’t, would he? I only knew, because I saw blood on the wall outside where he had been leaning, after the fight.” She felt like a heel, talking about Fenris behind his back like this. If he had wanted Hawke to know about his wound, he would have told him. She really didn’t think Fenris would appreciate this conversation, if he ever found out.

Hawke looked at her in a new light, reconsidering. “Alright,” he nodded, “I’ll take her.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, “Don’t I get a say in this?”

Hawke advanced on her, slipping his coat onto his shoulders. “I don’t have all night to discuss this.”

“Let me, Hawke,” Anders stepped between them, his hand held placatingly before him. Amazingly Hawke backed down, which for some obscure reason put Hrodwynn even more on her guard. “Hrodwynn,” he began, but after saying that one word, he seemed to change his mind. Sighing he set a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“Wynnie, you know this is a good opportunity for you. Hawke is leaving the city for a few days, not too long, but long enough for things here to settle down,” he affected a stern look, “Whatever it was that happened…”

“I didn’t steal anything, if that’s what you're implying,” she crossed her arms with a huff, mindful of the ball of fur purring against her chest.

“You know I’ve never judged you,” he scolded mildly, “Nor have I ever inquired how it is you make your way through life. But things did get out of your control tonight, didn’t they?” He waited for her sullen nod before he continued, “So, why not go with Hawke?” He plucked the kitten from her grasp. “He’ll need someone with him out there, someone who knows how to close a wound or mix a healing potion. And I… I can’t… I know I owe him, but… my clinic…” He let out a heavy breath, holding the kitten close to his cheek. “If it was only for a few hours, or a day at the most, but not for any longer. Too many people need me here.”

Hrodwynn made a small face, but she couldn’t argue with his logic, damn it! “It’s for how long?”

“A few days,” Hawke answered. “There’s some trouble in a mine, about a day-and-a-half journey from Kirkwall. We’ll head out, clear out the mine, and come back before the end of the week.”

“When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” he tilted his head, wondering if she had just agreed, “Sunrise. I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?”

Did I have a choice, she thought to herself, but outwardly she said, “Like Anders said, I do sort of need to be out of sight for a few days. And since you might need a healer…” she ended with a shrug. “Where do we meet tomorrow morning?”

“Perhaps,” he was thinking quickly as he spoke, not sure of her or her capabilities, other than her apparent talent for patching up wounds. If the soldiers were to come back tonight, and managed to take her into custody, he’d be without any sort of healer. “That is to say, maybe you should come with me tonight, put a little distance between yourself and these misunderstanding private guards. You could spend the night at the Hanged Man, and be ready with the others by the morning.”

She nodded, moving away from Anders and heading over to a small dresser against the wall. She picked up a pack that had been lying on the floor next to the dresser, and began rummaging through the drawers for the potions and herbs and other supplies she was going to need. “Do you know what kind of trouble to expect in this mine? Bears? A cave-in? A group of highwaymen?”

“Not a clue,” he admitted freely.

She rolled her eyes, but managed to turn her head away before he could see it. “Right. I’ll just make sure I’m prepared for everything, then.”

“Always advisable,” Anders agreed, missing the sarcasm.

“Do you need anything else?” Hawke asked, trying to be solicitous, at least while they were in front of Anders. He could tell the other mage had a soft spot for the little chit, and if he ever wanted to get Anders on his side, he’d have to play nice with Hrodwynn, too. He took the bulging pack from her hands, “A change of clothing? Those knives of yours? You’ll never know what we’ll come across.”

“I’ll, ah, just slip up to my loft and get my daggers and cloak. Then I’ll be ready.”

Hawke watched, slightly impressed by the speed and agility with which she scaled the ladder to her loft. “She climbs like a cat,” he hummed to himself.

“She does, yes,” Anders gave a small chuckle. He turned serious eyes to Hawke, still holding the purring fur ball in his hands. “Thank you, Hawke, for agreeing to take her with you. I know you would’ve preferred to have a Spirit Healer, but she’ll do nearly as good. And she needs this. I don’t know what she did—I never ask, so if I’m ever questioned I can honestly say I don’t know—but she’s been getting a little reckless as of late. A short trip and some fresh air will do her good, I think. Help her put things in perspective. And,” his eyes softened even more, “It will put me further in your debt.”

“Yes, well, as you said, it’s mutually beneficial,” he apparently waved aside the offer. Inwardly he was thinking it would be easier than anticipated to get Anders on his side.

There was no sound this time as the ladder was drawn up into the ceiling. Hrodwynn appeared next, falling through the hole but stopping in time to dangle from the fingers of one hand as she replaced the tile. Next she dropped to the floor, the tile clicking into place, and all her fingers intact.

“Nice trick,” Hawke hummed again. “You’re quite talented, Hrodwynn, quite agile. I’m sorry I never noticed it before.”

She smiled at him, her cheeks pinking and rounding, making her face even more youthful. “Thank you,” she murmured, wondering why this other side of him had appeared. He was still holding the bulging pack, which had to be straining his bruised shoulder, yet he showed now sign of distress or fatigue. When she held her hand out for it, he flashed a charming smile at her and slung it over his uninjured shoulder.

“Well, if you’re ready, you should probably go,” Anders said quietly, “Before those soldiers come back. Stay safe, Wynnie,” he hugged her, giving Hawke a little smile of gratitude over her head.

Hawke winked back, “I’ll keep her safe, Anders. I promise. Not a hair on her head will be harmed. But he’s right,” he dropped his gaze to hers, “We should get going.”

“Take care to remember to eat once in a while, would you?” was her parting shot to Anders as she and Hawke slipped out the front door.

The streets of Darktown were less crowded than an hour ago, but still had enough traffic for the two of them to blend in with the flow. Hawke pulled her close to his side, not for fear of losing her, but to make them appear more like a couple and not two people who happened to be going in the same direction.

“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling awkward within his embrace. After all, it was an intimate gesture, and she was fairly sure he preferred men.

“Those guards from earlier are just over there,” he nodded, but kept his eyes scanning around them. “If they recognize you, we’re done for. But they’re looking for one girl, not a couple in love.” He glanced down at her, and had to smile at the deep red blush spreading across her cheeks, though it was barely noticeable in the dim light.

“But…” she had to look away, not trusting the sudden change in him, or the charming smile, “Your shoulder…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he hugged her a little tighter, “As I told Anders earlier, nothing’s broken, and I can handle a little pain.” Yes, he thought to himself, it would be easy to make the chit think he liked her, if it meant she’d go back and tell Anders nice things about him. And Anders was a powerful mage, a powerful ally, if he could only convince him to leave his clinic once in a while.

They passed the soldiers, who didn’t give them a second glance.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, allowing them to reach the Hanged Man while it was still at a decent hour. Not that there was anything decent about the tavern. Once more Hrodwynn was hit by that palpable wall of unholy stench, forcing her to breathe through her mouth.

“Hawke! Kitten!” Varric proclaimed when he caught sight of them. “Barkeep! Another round!”

“Wha…?” Merrill plucked her head up, spinning it around. “Kitten?”

“Not you, Daisy,” he patted her hand, “The other Kitten.”

“I think we’re going to have to give one of them a new nickname. They can’t both be Kitten, or we’ll only confuse them,” Isabela said drolly.

“I was calling mine Kitten before you called yours Kitten,” Varric rumbled into his mug, determined to finish it before the next round arrived.

“Well, I’m not calling her Daisy. It’s too insinuating for one women to say to another. Not unless,” Isabela sent a teasing look towards Merrill, “She likes being called Daisy.”

“I… oh… you mean… well… I do like flowers…” Merrill stuttered, her cheeks turning pink beneath the tattoos.

Hawke had long since taken his arm from around Hrodwynn’s shoulders. He was moving off, taking his usual seat next to Varric. “You could always call her Wynnie; that’s what Anders uses.”

She felt her cheeks burn again, thinking she might mind being called Wynnie. She looked for a place to sit, and saw both Carver and Fenris shifting to make a spot for her between them. Fenris barely spared her a glance, preferring to hunch over his nearly empty mug. Carver, however, smiled warmly and watched her as she sat down. “Wynnie?” he asked quietly. She didn’t think the heat could get any worse, but somehow the nickname on his lips sounded… nice. No, that was too inadequate a term, but she did like the way it made her feel inside, warm and soft and… tingly. Maybe she wouldn’t mind being called that, after all. She rewarded him with a small smile and a smaller shrug, and he took her hand beneath the table.

“That reminds me,” Varric started, “Where is Anders? I thought you wanted a healer with us.”

“I did,” Hawke barely kept the disappointment from his voice, “I do, but Anders is unable to leave his clinic for so long. However, it appears Hrodwynn also knows a thing or two about healing.” He looked pointedly at Fenris, still a little miffed that the elf had kept something so serious from him. He had thought the two of them were making progress in their relationship—slow steps, undoubtedly, but forward-facing steps.

Fenris had glanced up at the mention of Hrodwynn’s heretofore unknown skill, and was held captive by Hawke’s piercing gaze. “She does,” he agreed, his gravelly voice adding more weight than any recommendation from Anders, “Quite a bit, actually.” He pulled free from Hawke’s eyes and set his gauntleted hand carefully on her shoulder, his voice as soft as his touch and only reaching as far as her ears, “I don't remember if I ever thanked you.”

“You didn’t,” she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at anyone, feeling all their eyes on her like branding irons. “I mean, you didn’t need to. Did you ever get someone to take the stitches out?”

“I took care of that myself,” he acknowledged.

“Ah, drinks have arrived,” announced Varric, slapping the table in anticipation as the mugs were passed out. When everyone had a vessel, including Hrodwynn, he raised his and proclaimed, “Here’s to Hrodwynn, a girl of many talents: picking pockets, picking fights, and now a master at picking locks.”

“What…?”

“News reached me just before you arrived,” he said, his eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug, “About the girl who broke into a Siggerdson-locked chest a few hours ago. She was spotted, but managed to get away. Small, youthful, dark red hair…”

She lifted her chin proudly, but her cheeks belied her words, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Varric and Isabela hooted with laughter at that, the former pirate taking another swig from her mug in salute.

“So, that’s why those private guards were after you,” Hawke felt the exasperation attempting to form a knot of pain behind his temples. He had known Hrodwynn was in trouble, but he thought it was over picking a nobleman’s pocket or something equally trivial and blown all out of proportion. He hadn’t bargained for trying to take a fugitive with him past the guards at the city gates. “Whom did you steal from, and what did you take?” he asked, wondering how much the bribes would cost him.

“Nothing was taken,” she protested, forgetting she was supposed to be denying breaking into the safe, “Not a damn thing. And no one saw me do it. Sure, I was in the neighborhood, and maybe I was running—who wouldn’t when guards start shouting and chasing you? But there’s no proof that I did anything.” It was a weak attempt to cover her arse, but considering she sat at a table where a pirate captain rubbed elbows with a city guard…

It was as if thinking about Aveline made her have to add to the conversation. “Where?” she sighed. She had been quiet up until now, but she couldn’t keep silent any longer. She was in the best position to get Hrodwynn out of trouble, if she wasn’t in too deep. A pit of lead began filling her gut as the girl refused to answer, making her turn to Varric.

“The Harbormaster’s Office,” he replied with a smile. Oh, he was enjoying this.

“Let me get this straight,” Aveline drummed her fingers on the table, “You were merely in the neighborhood. No one saw you in the office, correct?” Hrodwynn nodded. “No one saw you anywhere near the safe, not even in the same room as the safe?”

“No one,” she finally looked up, surprised that the look on her face wasn’t as dire as she expected. “Ah, because it wasn’t me, I mean…”

“Don’t lie to me, Hrodwynn,” Aveline sighed again, “You can keep the truth from me, that’s fine; but don’t outright lie, understood? I’m trying to help you here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded, staring back at the table again. Hrodwynn grew quiet, thinking that this night couldn’t get any worse. First she was spotted leaving through the side door of the office. Next she got chased almost all the way back to Anders’ clinic, which led to one of her kittens being sold. Then she got strong-armed into going along on one of Hawke’s little excursions—as if she wanted to spend any time with him. And now she felt like she did the first time she had gotten caught picking a man’s pockets, being scolded and talked down to and finally left off with a stern warning.

“Do your men call you ma’am, or sir?” Isabela asked, slightly off topic.

“Sir,” Aveline answered without missing a beat. “Hawke, I don’t see any problems. Yes, a girl was spotted, and Hrodwynn matches the description of the person of interest…”

“But it wasn’t Hrodwynn,” Varric gestured with his mug, playing along. “She’s been here with me all afternoon. Isn’t that right, Kitten?”

“Oh, yes, of course, I get it,” answered Merrill.

“See? I told you,” hummed Isabela in a sing-song voice.

“Still,” Aveline attempted to wrestle control of the conversation back, “It would be best if she wasn’t without a friend or two nearby tonight. Just in case.”

“She could stay with us,” offered Carver, eagerly.

“Wonderful,” droned Hawke, “I can just imagine what our uncle would say: ‘Oh, look, you’ve brought home yet another stray.’ No, Carver, our place is crowded enough as it is. I was hoping instead that she could stay here.”

“No good,” Varric shook his head. “I saw a small entourage of mercenaries check in earlier; there won’t be an empty room to be had tonight.”

Hawke was unwilling to admit defeat. “Isabela?”

“What? Oh, you want us to share a room? Ah, well, normally I’d love to,” she answered, “But tonight I… ah… happened to be booked solid until the morning.” She glanced over at a side table, where one of the aforementioned mercenaries winked at her.

Varric leaned back a little, looking Hrodwynn over from head to toe, or at least over what showed above the table. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind sharing, for one night. We’re both small enough to fit in one bed…”

“Not going to happen,” Carver placed a protective hand on her shoulder, causing Varric to laugh.

“I’m crushed that you find me untrustworthy, Junior. My intentions are perfectly honorable. Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?”

“Oh, I know this one: because you’re too good at bullshitting,” Merrill chirped.

“She could stay with me,” offered Fenris.

Hrodwynn had been wrong earlier; the night had just gotten worse. She realized she had sat still for too long, letting the others decide her fate. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, to even say she’d rather go back to Anders’ for the night, Aveline put her weight behind Fenris’ suggestion. “That would be best, I think. Hightown is far enough removed from the Docks, no one should think of looking for her there. And there’s less likelihood of her being spotted by these private soldiers if we leave tomorrow morning through the Hightown gates.”

“That’s settled then,” Isabela announced. “Hrodwynn will spend the night with Fenris, and we’ll all meet at sunrise by the Hightown gates. Now, excuse me,” she pushed herself away from the table, “I have another—pressing—appointment.”

Hawke looked like he had swallowed a lemon. Whole. Carver also didn’t look too pleased with the situation, but the only other option was to send her with Merrill, which was also too close to the Docks. “We should probably get going,” Aveline announced, also standing. “That is, if you don’t mind, Fenris. I should be getting back to the barracks, and there would be less of a chance of being accosted if I walked with the two of you.”

“Any private guard or mercenary would think twice about grabbing Hrodwynn, no matter how much she might match the description of a fugitive, if she was in the company of the future Captain of the City Guard,” he agreed, also standing. Hrodwynn had no choice but to follow suit, reluctantly leaving Carver’s warm side.

“Ah, just let me get my pack,” she said quietly, walking around to Hawke who held the bulging sack out for her. Fenris was there ahead of her, taking the heavy pack and effortlessly placing it over his shoulders. She didn’t say anything else, other than return the smile Carver flashed at her as she fell into step behind the two warriors.

Yup, today was a hot steaming pile of shit. And the rest of the week would be spent with Hawke and his friends, listening to the banter and the baiting and the innuendos. All of it culminating at some remote mine that was experiencing some sort of unknown trouble.

She kicked at an unoffending pebble in the street, sending it skittering just past Fenris’ ankle. If only she had found something useful in that Maker damned safe! But it had been full of pages of paper, filled with twisted lines of indecipherable ink…

“Keep up with us, Hrodwynn,” Aveline called back. She was sure the tone was meant to be kind, but it sounded like nagging just then. Fenris, however, turned and looked at her, his expression as unreadable as those papers had been, before he held out his hand.

She looked at it, at the lyrium marks showing faintly across his palm and down his fingers. He had told her, any touch against those marks caused him pain. Yet he was holding out his hand for her to take, to touch those markings, knowing full well what the consequences would be, and that she understood what it cost him as well. She jogged up and took hold, letting him pull her closer to his side.

It seemed she had earned the trust of the wolf.


	6. The Lair of the Wolf

The door closed behind Hrodwynn with a solid thud, the heavy echo ringing out to be swallowed by the darkness before her. She tried—and failed—to resist the urge to swallow, apprehension making a tight knot in her chest. She had been fine up to this point, walking between Aveline and Fenris in the growing evening shadows, but now that they were here at his mansion, now that Aveline had left her alone with him, now she was…

Not scared. No, whatever it was she felt whenever she looked at Fenris, it wasn’t fear. She knew he was a powerful and ruthless fighter, but she also knew he wouldn’t harm her. It was more… wariness? Nervousness? Concern?

Maybe she was simply tired? She paused her steps to scrub at an eye, blinking away the fatigue, fighting to stay alert. It had been a long day, after all, and even that arrogant arse Hawke would have to admit to being a little weary if he gone through all she had…

Picking a lock that could kill her if she made even the slightest error…

Racing through the Docks and then Darktown, through the chokedamp, trying to give her pursuers the slip…

Hiding in her loft…

Losing one of her kittens…

Hawke acting nice towards her—thought that didn’t last…

Walking all the way to Hightown…

And she hadn’t had a bite to eat since…

She dropped her hand away from her eyes with a startled gasp. Fenris had disappeared. She had been following him, his white hair bobbing before her even in the dank and dusty mansion, but when she had stopped to rub at her eyes, he had slipped from sight. All around her were dark shadows falling across darker floor tiles, slipping around darker corners, fading into darker doorways. She had a brief notion that the mansion might be haunted, that the ghosts of the shades they had fought were still here, waiting for the night, waiting for her return, waiting for…

A light bloomed into being off to the side and above, highlighting Fenris’ face in a golden glow. She jumped at the sudden light, a small squeak escaping her. She clamped her lips together and told herself to stop acting so childish. Yes, the mansion was dark, and oh-so-very-empty with only Fenris living here, but that didn’t mean there were ghosts waiting in the shadows.

Do shades even have ghosts? Weren’t they sort of ghosts themselves?

Fenris had noticed when she stopped following him, but he didn’t comment. The whole way here he had sensed her exhaustion through her stumbling steps, her murmured responses, her general inattention. She had barely acknowledged Aveline’s departure, mutely waving a good night and falling into place behind him. When she paused to rub at her eyes, he had left her alone in the main hall, climbing the steps to the upper balcony. He reached his chamber, slipping inside just long enough to light a splinter of wood from the fire in the hearth, before returning to the hallway to light one of the lamps.

As he turned up the wick, flooding the area with light, he heard a startled squeak from below. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, standing there with a hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. He turned to face her, and to his eyes at first she looked so small, so vulnerable, so alone in the gloom of the main hall. Then the light shining behind him set off her vibrant, indefatigable colors—the dark red tunic so perfectly matching her hair, the locks falling haphazardly across her forehead and temples. Her green eyes glittered, the moisture caused by her exhaustion making them sparkle like finely cut emeralds. Even the paleness of her skin seemed to glow, to push away the black surrounding her, making her shine like a beacon on a dangerous cliff.

Or a siren, one who called sailors to their doom, considering the self-destructive impulse he felt to take her in his arms and…

“Sorry, I, ah,” she spoke, mercifully breaking into his thoughts, “I guess I took a wrong turn, didn’t see you head upstairs…” Her voice trailed away in the brunt of his silence. She cleared her throat before heading over to the base of the steps, taking them as quickly as she dared. Her feet stumbled, the tip of her boot catching on the ledge of the top step, sending her head first into…

…into his arms. She got a face-full of his cuirass, but it was preferable to the floor. He held onto her while she got her feet beneath her and strengthened her knees, his gauntlets tight but careful around her limbs, the lethally sharpened tips held carefully away from her. Once she felt steady enough, she turned her attention to him, slowly lifting her gaze upward, thinking to herself how the lyrium on his neck reminded her of a cage, or the two lines marking his chin seemed to imitate an unearthly goatee. She looked up towards his eyes, a timidly thankful smile on her lips, but the expression she found made her smile fade into the shadows.

He barely registered the slow lifting of her face, his meditative focus on the struggle going on within his soul. He should be discouraging her, pushing her away, for her own protection, not holding her in his hands, his muscles twitching from the effort of resisting the compulsion to pull her closer. It felt good—felt so damn selfishly good—to touch another person, to feel warm skin beneath his, soft and smooth and pale. To have someone near, someone to share a conversation with, someone whose eyes sparkled when she felt mirthful, someone whose face turned heart-shaped whenever she smiled.

Unbeknownst to him his expression darkened. Venhedis, he swore under his breath, wondering what he was he doing. He had invited her to spend the night with him, just the two of them in the mansion. He told himself he hadn’t extended the invitation for any other reason than the repayment of a debt. She had come to him one night, to tend a wound he didn’t even know he had, and had asked for nothing in return. His invitation this evening, his offer of protection for one night, was only a repayment of that debt. Nothing more. It couldn’t be anything more.

“Sorry, again, I, ah, I guess I’m a bit tired. Long day and all.”

Her tone was apologetic, embarrassed, her cheeks turning pink even before she could drop her gaze. Quickly he realized he had been staring, and tried to think of an excuse for his scrutiny. Carefully he brushed a sweat-matted lock of hair behind her ear, mindful of the sharp tips to his gauntlets. “Yes, I imagine it has been tiring.” He let go of her and stepped aside, trying to remain aloof, formal, the perfect gentleman.

Hrodwynn barely kept herself from flinching while his taloned fingers brushed the hair from her cheek. She had felt it earlier—the trembling of his muscles—when he had caught her and kept her from tripping, and decided it was due to pain. It had to be torture for him, the lyrium etched into nearly every part of his skin, tracing every finger, so no matter what he touched it caused him agony. She felt those hot tears returning as she tried to distract herself from the sympathy welling up inside her. She knew the proud elf would only resent her for showing him pity. “Been nonstop since before noon. First the job for Brekker, then the chase through half of Kirkwall, the worse half, then having to hide while they searched Anders’ clinic, then Hawke and this all-important job of his. And to top it off, I lost one of my kittens!”

To her horror, the tears spilled past her lashes, leaving incriminating trails down her cheeks. She tried to brush them away quickly, not wanting him to see her cry, not wanting to give him even the slightest cause to suspect they could be in part for him. She sniffed and looked away, hoping to spy something to distract her, distract him…

“Have you eaten yet this evening?” He had inferred how tired she must be feeling, but hearing how incoherently she babbled her words, and seeing how quickly the tears came, he began to have more suspicions. At his question, her stomach rumbled, causing her cheeks to redden even further.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, “I, ah, no, I haven’t had the time. I had meant to grab a bite of something at the Hanged Man, but I didn’t end up staying there long enough.”

“Trust me; it was for the best. Tonight’s mystery meat was fish.” He gave a shudder, making a disgusting sound, almost like he had vomited. She half expected a puddle of sick at his feet. “Hardly palatable.”

She nodded, thinking it was expected of her, not really sure where this conversation was going, but glad that it gave her time to get the tears under control. She made one last swipe at her cheeks before facing him again.

He watched her turn back around, saw her lost and vulnerable expression, and felt the need to get some air. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you here. I usually eat at the Hanged Man myself, but I couldn’t stomach it tonight. Why don’t I head out and pick up something for our dinner?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but started down the steps as if she had already agreed.

“I could go with you!” she offered eagerly, coming up behind him, both hands gripping the railing as she leaned against it.

Her words stopped him, the keen tone making him turn back. He took one look at her bloodshot eyes, her pale and sweaty face, her trembling hands, and knew she wouldn’t have the strength. Yet he hardly doubted that she would accept that for a reason; she was too spunky and determined to prove herself capable. “No, you’re not supposed to be seen, remember? Pick a room for your use tonight, make yourself at home, I won’t be long.”

He turned away before he could see her face fall.

Hrodwynn stood at the top of the stairs, watching his white hair fade into gray as he strode away, his form quickly swallowed by the shadows of a doorway. A moment later, she heard the main door open and close, and she realized she was all alone in the mansion.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, gripping the railing and staring at the place where he’d disappeared, but she knew she would eventually have to move. Giving herself a little shake, she spoke aloud to try to banish her silly fears. “Well, Hrodwynn, don’t just stand there acting like a twit. You’ve got things to do, so stop wasting time.”

Though talking didn’t make much progress towards dispersing the unease she felt, she nevertheless lifted her chin and turned on the spot, heading towards the only lighted lamp in the hallway. It was just outside Fenris’ room, and for reasons she didn’t want to name, she felt it would be best if she stayed in one of the rooms next to his. She picked the nearer one, set her hand on the latch, and opened the portal.

The sight that greeted her did little to calm her nerves. “Oh, perfect, just… perfect,” she sighed, seeing nothing inside but more shadows. Of course it was pitch black in the room. Fenris wouldn’t have the shutters open, not wanting the neighbors to see an elf—a former slave—squatting in a mansion in the middle of Hightown. She could make out some furniture within, but they were nothing more than indistinct shapes and lumps that made no sense to her. She cast about the hallway, hoping to spy a table with candles or something equally helpful, but the area was unsurprisingly void of anything useful or convenient.

“Suppose it makes sense,” she groused, “Since he doesn’t use any room but his, everything useful like a spare candle would be kept in there, right?” She looked at the door in question, and feeling a little like she was spying on him, she opened his door and slipped inside.

As she suspected, Fenris’ room was nothing like the rest of the mansion. It was warm and bright, thanks to a well-stocked hearth and a recently stoked fire. It was also in a lived-in sort of disarray. There was a table, cleared except for her bulging pack and a few chairs tucked around it. Beyond that was his bed, the bedclothes rumpled and slightly off-center. A greatsword leaned against the bedpost with a cleaning rag draped over the hilt. A half-finished bottle of some sort of wine sat forgotten on a bench in front of the hearth, an empty bowl near the edge. Bits of butcher paper lay crumpled in front of the hearth, as if after finishing whatever food had been wrapped inside, he had meant to toss the empty paper into the fire, but missed. There was a bookshelf in the corner, crammed haphazardly with an array of items, among them a couple bottles of healing potions mixed in with several bottles of wine, an empty scabbard—probably for the greatsword, and a satchel with an odd shaped lump within. She half expected to see some spare tunics bunched in a corner or the like, but she doubted he owned any clothing other than his dark, leathery armor. The room looked… well, compared to the rest of the mansion, compared to the first time she had been in here, the room easily looked quite homey.

She snapped herself out of her reverie, suddenly thinking what Fenris would say if he came back to find her snooping in his room, her heart quickening a little at his imagined ire. She grabbed a splinter of wood from the pile beside the hearth, lit the end of it, and with her satchel in hand she headed for the door.

In the hallway once more, she stopped long enough to close his door and drop her pack beneath the lighted lamp. Then, with the splinter supporting a single and rather large flame, she entered the dark room. She left the door opened behind her, wanting every bit of light she could scrounge, and lifted the splinter up above her head, casting soft and flickering light around her. She turned on the spot, her mouth opened with amazement, as she began to make out what was in the room.

“No wonder there’s no windows,” she murmured, spying the chamberpot behind a screen, a large copper tub off to the side, a stack of towels on a small cabinet in the corner. “It’s the water closet.”

The next moment happened too quickly for her to follow. The splinter burned down to her fingertips, the flame going out as she gave a small cry of alarm and dropped the splinter to the floor. Without the flame, the room was thrown back into pitch darkness, the same darkness as the rest of the mansion, the mansion where she had helped fight sinister shades and hungry demons and arcane horrors…

Unable to think, only able to feel and feeling only fear and the undeniable need to run, she spun on the balls of her feet and raced for the door. Unfortunately, in her heedless and headlong pelt, her aim was off—or rather it was too good. She hit the door squarely with her face, the force of the impact sending it crashing closed and her bouncing backwards to land heavily on the floor.

For several seconds she lay there, unable to tell if her eyes were open or closed, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Yet the longer she lay there, the longer nothing happened, and she eventually began to realize there were no more shades or horrors in the dark. The room was just the same as it was when she could see it. Other than her own form sprawled across the floorboards.

“Hrodwynn you ninny,” she said to herself. “Stand up and find the bloody door.”

She wiped the tears off her cheeks and sniffed into her sleeve as she scrambled around to her hands and knees, and then pushed herself to her feet. Carefully, cautiously, her arms extended before her, she took little shuffling steps until her hands came into contact with the wall. A few moments casting to either side, and she felt the doorframe.

When the golden light from the hallway burst round the door, she couldn’t stop the single grateful sob swelling upwards from her chest. She took a moment to blink in the light, before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her. Maybe a little too firmly, but she chose not to notice. She sniffed again and got back to business.

She walked past Fenris’ chamber to the door on the other side, straightened her shoulders, and shoved it open. This room was a little better; even without any lighted candle or lamp, it wasn’t as dark as the other room. The shutters were open, one drape pulled back to allow light to shine through the window, moonlight painting the floorboards with silver, as torchlight from the streets cast flickering gold across the ceiling. There was a bed off to the side, a wardrobe with a chest on one side and a dressing table on the other, even a hearth already stacked with kindling, wanting only a flame.

“Much better,” she said with a short nod and set about making the room livable, at least for one night. She set her sack on a nearby chest and picked a candle from mantle. She lit the wick from the lamp in the hallway, and returned to coax a fire into life within the hearth. She pulled closed the drapes, shook out the linens on the bed, and sat down on it to unpack and repack her satchel.

She had stuffed items in there at random, not knowing what Hawke expected to find other than ‘trouble.’ She wanted to take the time, now that she had some, to repack it carefully and thoughtfully, with the items she was most likely to need towards the top—like healing potions, and the more potent or less useful items beneath—like the salve for burns. She also placed a few rolls of bandages at the very bottom, to help protect the bottles and jars from breaking. It wasn’t any lighter or less cumbersome than before, but it was more efficiently packed.

“You were in my room.”

The tone wasn’t as accusatory as the words, but Hrodwynn gave a guilty start regardless. Fenris was standing in the open doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest and an amused sort of smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When she lifted her face towards him, however, his expression grew concerned. She watched, alarmed, as he pushed himself off the wall and stalked over to where she sat on the bed. She couldn’t help the flinch this time as a gauntleted hand extended towards her.

He froze, confused by her reaction, his hand hanging in the space between them. He had taken longer than intended to find them some food, deciding he should use the opportunity to get a little extra air, clear his head, cool his blood. It had seemed to work; by the time he got back to the mansion his mind was focused once more, no longer distracted by images of emerald eyes and apple-red hair. Even when he came to her room and stood in the doorway, watching her finish tying her satchel closed, he felt collected, confident, even to the point of teasing her a little.

She had lifted her face at the sound of his voice, and he had seen the blood. He had to touch her, to make sure she was alright, to find out how she could have hurt herself in the short time he was gone. When she pulled away from him, when the apprehension flared in her eyes, he couldn’t understand why she would fear him.

Then he noticed his metal-incased, taloned-tipped fingers. With a muttered curse, he pulled his hand away to remove the offensive item. “Forgive me. I forgot I was still wearing my gauntlets. But… what happened to you?”

She sniffed, watching him warily as his free hand pulled her to her feet. “What do you mean?” she asked, staring at lyrium-laced fingers, long and lean, reaching out to tentatively dab at her upper lip. She winced, feeling the bruise she hadn’t noticed yet, and stared at the red staining the tips of his fingers as he pulled away. “I…” she sniffed again and wiped her upper lip on her sleeve, trying to get a look at how much blood was there, but the dark red fabric had been hiding the evidence. “Oh, bloody Void.”

Hrodwynn grimaced, remembering her little mishap in the water closet. She must have broken the skin of her upper lip against the edge of the door.

He didn’t speak again, but took her hand and led her into the hallway. The door to his room was open, a delicious aroma drifting out towards them, making her mouth water. “Is that,” she paused to sniff, thankful she was able to do so despite the bruising and bleeding, “Chicken?” On the table was a lumpy satchel, the source of the smells. Her feet tried to go there despite his grip on her hand.

“We’ll clean up your lip first,” he steered her past the table towards the bench in front of the fire, “Then dinner.”

She gave in, reluctantly, allowing him to set her on the bench. She even stayed put while he rummaged around for a clean towel and some water, though her eyes remained gazing at the table. She only looked away when he broke into her line of sight, sitting in front of her and taking hold of her chin, tilting her face towards the light from the fire so he could see better. “Well?” he prompted, dabbing gently at the half-dried blood around the small cut. “What happened?”

She risked a glance at his face, and saw only the same warmth and compassion, and mild curiosity, that was in his voice. Her cheeks continued to burn, however, as she sputtered some sort of explanation, while trying not to move her lips too much. “I, ah, went looking, for a room, and found the water closet, but it was dark, and when I turned to leave, the door was sort of there…” Her voice trailed away, deciding to leave out the part of her falling flat on her arse, or her fears about ghosts of shades and demons.

“Didn’t I tell you not to use your face as a shield?” He meant it teasingly, and she gave a little tremble that might have been part laughter, but it wasn’t quite. Fenris took a moment to study her carefully, noting the redness of her cheeks as well as the moisture from unshed tears clinging to her lashes. There was undoubtedly more to the story than she was telling, but seeing as how she was only a little hurt—and greatly embarrassed—over what actually happened, he decided to let the matter go. He finished cleaning up the blood and pointed towards the shelf in the corner. “There are some healing potions on that shelf. Just a sip should be enough.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“It will be by morning,” he predicted. He didn’t wait for her acquiescence, but stood and headed back towards the table. He began removing items from the satchel and setting out their supper, confident that she would do what she had been told.

And she was going to do as she was told, but she couldn’t help feeling a surly impulse to stick her tongue out at him. His back was to her, however, so he wouldn’t have noticed it if she had acted childishly. Giving in she trudged tiredly over to the shelf, picked up one of the bottles of healing potions and uncorked it. She was about to take a sip when she spied the satchel. She had seen it earlier, and the strange lump inside it, but something new had attracted her attention… the lump was moving!

Fenris heard the bottle drop followed by a muffled shout, like a call for help stopped by a hand to the mouth. He was instantly alert, spinning and lunging towards her, expecting danger or trouble or slavers or…

…anything but what he found. She was standing with her hand over her own mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she struggled not to cry. He followed her gaze towards the bookshelf and an extra satchel he stored there, and finally understood when a brown furry head poked itself out of the opening. It was his kitten, the same one he had taken home after that night in the Hanged Man. He reached out to pick up the ball of fur, the animal purring loudly and gripping his fingers tight.

“I forgot, Cassia likes to hide and jump out at me. It’s a game she plays. I should have warned you, but I had no idea she was hiding there.”

Hrodwynn shook her head, somewhat in control of herself once more. “No, it’s alright. May I?” she reached out for the kitten, and he willingly placed her in Hrodwynn’s hands. She smiled, forgetting her tiredness and fright in the force of the kitten’s purrs. “Hello, there! How are you? You look fit. Been finding a lot of mousies, have you?” she cooed, holding the kitten to her face.

“She’s kept herself fed, whenever I’ve been unable to provide for her,” Fenris admitted, picking up what was left of the healing potion. It would be enough for Hrodwynn’s lip, but he’d give it to her later; the kitten was doing her more good than a potion could. “You were right; she’s a very good mouser.”

“Her mother’s the best in Darktown.”

“So you’ve claimed,” he agreed dryly. “She’s even shared her bounty with me on occasion.”

She smiled privately at that, finally composed enough to meet his eyes over the top of the kitten’s head. “She likes you.”

Some sort of twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth, and for a moment his pale green eyes showed a little light of… something, something living and warm. “Indeed.” He reached out to stroke the kitten’s cheek, the purring increasing at his touch.

“What did you call her?”

“Cassia,” he answered, leading them back to the table. He already had a small platter prepared for the kitten, which he set on the floor off to the side.

“Cassia,” she repeated, allowing the kitten to squirm out of her grasp so she could get to her supper. “That’s a beautiful name. What does it mean?”

He reached down to stroke the kitten, and she lifted her face from her little feast to acknowledge his attention. “It’s a Tevene word for cinnamon. Her color reminded me of the spice, and she seems to like it.”

If the thunderous vibrations were anything to go by, Hrodwynn believed him. She sat down at the table with a heavy thump. “I lost one of my kittens today.”

He looked at her closely when she suddenly spoke, the words abrupt and harsh and full of emotion, and remembered she had said something similar earlier that evening. He saw her eyes try to fill with tears again, and the brave way she lifted her chin, as if daring him to mention the dampness. He allowed her what pride she could salvage, yet passed her the healing potion and asked, “What happened?”

She sniffed, though from suppressed tears this time, and took a sip before answering, “When those guards followed me home, and were searching for me, I hid in my loft over the clinic. I can lift the ladder up behind me and close the ceiling tile, and no one can tell I’m up there. Only I forgot to bring my kittens with me. They kept crying around where the ladder should be. And one of the guards saw them, and asked Anders if he could buy one, because his sister has a mouse problem in her shop.”

“And Anders sold your kitten.” He managed to put a lot of anger and contempt into the name.  Now he understood why she was overly emotional tonight, and who had caused it.

“It’s not like he had a choice, or any excuse to refuse the guard. He had to, before they figured out why the kittens were upset. Really it’s my own fault for not remembering to take them with me…” She finally managed to stop the flow of words, but only because her emotions were choking her voice. She downed the rest of the bottle, hoping he would let the matter drop.

He didn’t like the way she defended the man—the abomination—but considering she lived with him, or rather he had given her a place to sleep, Fenris supposed it was natural for her to feel some loyalty towards him. He dropped the subject, not wanting to cause her more upset tonight, but he promised himself he would find a way to discourage her from liking Anders, if only to save her from his insanity. But that would be for another time.

Hrodwynn had turned her attention to the food on the table. Her eyes locked onto the chicken which he’d already carved, the skin covered with rosemary and sage and a deep golden color that told her it had been cooked with lots of butter. There was also a small apple tart, three vegetable pasties which were quite cold, several rolls hardened from sitting out all day, and more than a few apples. She immediately grabbed a drumstick and took a bite, too hungry to wait for manners, and said around the mouthful, “Pretty lucky you found a shop open this late.”

“The shop wasn’t exactly open,” Fenris reluctantly allowed.

“You stole it?” she asked. Already the healing potion was helping her to feel better, relaxing her and relieving her anxieties as it healed the small cut. “You. Fenris. You broke into a shop to steal some food.”

Fenris held himself stiffly, his posture straight, his expression set with dignity. “I assure you, there was no breaking involved. Stealing, yes, but no breaking. When the owners arrive in the morning, there will be no sign I was there, other than some missing groceries.”

“How’d you manage it?” she asked around a mouthful of pastie. “I can’t help but to leave a scratch or two when picking a lock, and I’m good. I know what I’m doing. You’re a fighter; you're not supposed to know how to pick a lock—unless there’s more to you than I thought.” She leaned forward and asked, “Are you a thief, too?”

Fenris thought for a moment that she might be teasing him, but remembering the potion she had just taken, he figured that was more likely to be affecting her actions. He set aside the roll he had been chewing to answer, “I used my special talent to reach inside the door and pick the lock.”

“You mean,” Hrodwynn paused to swallow the last bite of pastie, wanting to give him her full attention, “That thing you do, with your hand, the pushing it into a man’s chest. You can do that with other things, like doors and locks?”

“Of course,” he spoke like it should have been obvious.

“Oh, I thought… never mind.” She dropped her gaze, going back to the chicken, picking at a large chunk of breast meat.

“What?”

“I only thought… I mean… that thing… what d’you call it?… your talent…” she glanced up at him, and saw he was watching her passively, not judgmental at all, simply waiting for her to come to a point. Feeling a little less silly, she found the courage to admit her ignorance, “I thought that you could only do it to people.”

“I can do it to anything,” he stated in a mild tone, “Animal, vegetable, or mineral.” To prove his point, he passed his hand through the chicken and the table beneath it.

She watched the markings glow, the lyrium an eery blue-white that was stronger than the lamplight. She could also see other lines glowing, deep within his flesh, besides those on the surface of his skin. She could imagine the lyrium, running through his limbs like veins, some even going bone deep, or twisting between his organs. And he had admitted the markings hurt.

She got a little more of an insight into his existence than she wanted.

“What about your armor?” she asked, trying to distract herself. “How come, when you use your talent to pass through stuff, you don’t pass through your own armor, too?”

“It was made specifically for me,” Fenris responded. “Called Grafted Spirit Hide, it was infused with lyrium in a ritual similar to what I endured, so it phases through objects with me. Any other clothing or armor would fall away.”

“Oh,” she made the shape of the sound with her lips more than voiced it. “Still, that’s a useful talent, I mean, picking a lock without leaving behind any scratches, just reaching in there and…” she made a little hooking motion with her fingers. “I’d love to team up with you sometime.”

He could see her eyes were beginning to glaze, undoubtedly due to the healing potion. It had been too potent for her injury, leaving her dazed and talkative, though at least she had managed to eat something. “From what I gather, you do quite well without me.” When she tilted her head, somewhat confused, he added, “The Siggerdson earlier today.” He watched her cheeks fill with color yet again.

“Oh, that, well, I, ahem, that wasn’t…”

“That wasn’t you?” he finished, one jet black eyebrow lifting skeptically.

She knew he knew she had broken into the safe, but after the day she had, the elation she should be feeling after a successful job was perversely missing. Actually, everything was kind of removed and growing fuzzy around the edges. “Ah, well, yes, it was me. I did it. I broke into the Harbormaster’s Office and picked the Siggerdson lock on his safe.”

“I assume there was a reason?” he asked, curious despite his earlier resolve to keep out of her life, and keep her out of his.

“It’s… rather complicated,” she hedged. She left the chicken for him to finish and picked up an apple in her left hand. “I, ah, there are some people I work for. Very private people, so don’t ask me any questions about them. And, yes, the work I do is illegal. So what? So’s half the jobs in this city. I bet even Hawke’s done a few illegal acts.”

Fenris didn’t comment, knowing the truth of her words.

“Anyway," for some stupid reason she couldn't stop talking, the words spilling out of her mouth, threatening to take every little secret of hers with them, "I was supposed to only open the safe, not take anything, make it look like I had just picked it when someone happened to ‘discover’ me in the act. I’d run, he’d give chase, but I’d get away.”

“Only you didn’t get away.”

“No,” she sighed, “I didn’t. Got spotted by some guards other than the who'd been bribed to let me get away.” She finished her apple, and disconsolately tossed the core onto her plate. “It was my own fault. I took too long, because I stopped to try to find something in the safe.”

“What?”

She tried pressing her lips closed in an effort not to speak, but was still unable to help herself. “Something about a ship a few years back, I guess, some sort of name or date or… something. Doesn’t matter. It was a stupid thing to try, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t read! So even if I did find something, I wouldn’t know it, would I? I’d just… I was hoping… I don’t know!”

She pushed away from the table, feeling those tears returning, hating herself for how emotional and childish and… and… everything she acted. She wanted to run away, to get out of that room, away from him, away from the way she kept talking. Anders was nice and proper, never asking questions about her activities or her past, but Fenris kept asking and she kept answering and…

In her haste to leave the table, she had knocked it hard enough to rattle a few of the dishes. One bottle in particular fell to the floor, the healing potion, drawing her attention, and some of the fuzziness around her thoughts began to clear. She should have recognized the taste. It was a potent potion, meant for serious injuries. It also had the tendency to make a person talkative before knocking them out. She supposed it wouldn’t normally matter for Fenris, who lived alone and therefore had no one to hear him talk. But she had taken the potion, and she was babbling, and she knew very soon she’d be asleep. Thankfully there hadn’t been much left of it, but she should leave now for bed, or she might not make it. She truly intended to speak her excuses and leave, but Cassia took that moment to decide she wanted some more attention. With the kitten mewling at her ankle, she couldn’t resist and scooped the warm little body up into her arms. Burying her face in her fur, a strange thought popped into her head.

Fenris' mind had been on a different tact entirely. After her little outburst, he had been sitting quietly, chastising himself for having thoughtlessly hurt her feelings. He knew how painful and awkward it could be, trying to make one’s way in the world, unable to read. He could easily imagine her shame and embarrassment, as he shared it. He had gathered every single scrap of paper he could find in this mansion, saved and tucked them away in a chest, thinking that perhaps somewhere on one of the pages was a message or a note stating where Danarius had gone, or when he would return. And every time he spoke with Hawke, he tried to find the courage to admit his shortcomings, and find the strength to ask for his help.

And every single time, his throat would tighten and the words would dry up.

Yet he felt he could admit his illiteracy to her, if only because she shared it. She understood the shame, the awkwardness, the inhibitions. He truly meant to speak, to tell her he was also unable to read, to ease them past the uncomfortable moment.

But she spoke first. “Fenris, can I ask you a question?”

He blinked at her. She had started back towards the table, Cassia in her arms, her steps beginning to grow unsteady. The potion was having its final effect, and she would undoubtedly be asleep inside a few minutes. He stood to take the kitten from her before she dropped her, and answered, “Yes?”

“Are you… um… what’s the word… bi…?”

He couldn’t speak right away, unable to believe she was asking what she was asking. It was no doubt due to the potion, but he had no idea how to answer her. Or if he should answer her. Or what the answer would be. Instead he took her arm and steered her towards the door, stalling while he tried to think of what to say.

“Um… I can’t think…" she murmured, more than willing to walk with him while her brain focused on muddling through what she was trying to ask, "It’s… when you speak more than one language.”

He stopped out in the hallway, but she continued for a few extra steps, not realizing he wasn't there. Three full seconds passed before he could find his voice. “Bilingual.”

She twirled around to face him, gave a little smile and snapped her fingers. “That’s the word. Bilingual. Are you bilingual?”

Again he took her by the arm, and again she didn't resist his guidance. “I, ah, yes, I've learned the common tongue spoken here in the Free Marches,” he managed to maneuver her around the doorway and into her room, “But Tevene is my mother tongue.”

She nodded, “It must be hard, trying to remember what language to speak. Is that why you say things like Benefaris? What does it mean, anyway, Benefaris?”

“It’s merely a toast, a wish for health and good fortune.”

“Benefaris,” she repeated again, allowing him to set her down on her bed. “Then what does Venhedis mean?”

He coughed, making her lie down while he tugged off her boots. “It’s… ah… a curse word… I’d rather not…”

She made a dismissive motion with her hand. “That's fine.”

He pulled a blanket up around her shoulders, and tried to get away before the conversation got any more uncomfortable. He got as far as the doorway when he heard the bed creak behind him. “Hey, what’s a good Tevinter name for a boy cat?”

He looked over his shoulder to see her, propped up on her elbows, blinking at his distant form. His only thought was to get away as quickly as possible, so he gave the first answer that came to mind, “Felinus.”

“Felinus,” she repeated, nodding to herself. “I like it. Felinus. I’ll see if he likes it when I get back to the clinic. Thank you, Fenris. Good night.” With a bemused little smile, she laid down on the bed and closed her eyes.

Fenris stood for a long while, half in the hallway and half in her room, watching her quickly drift off to sleep, wondering why he had given her a word that simply meant ‘boy cat.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my dears, that it’s been so long since I’ve updated. My Muse was a naughty boy and ran away from home. I suppose it was my own fault, giving him free reign and all that :B This past week, however, he’s been sneaking back into my life, coming up behind me to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, tickling my imagination, and then spinning away and running off before I can reach around and wrestle him into submission! Not that I would do that, because he gets pouty when I force him to inspire me. And besides, when he does it of his own free will, he’s so very good…  
> *ahem* Anyway, he’s back now, sitting behind me, rubbing my shoulders as I type, filling my thoughts with all sorts of yumminess…  
> But then I went and sliced the side of my thumb, right where I hit the space bar. I hope you appreciate the pain I’ve gone through these past few days, finally feeling inspired to write, yet every word hurting (and every sentence twice as much).


	7. Passing Through the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any who are interested, I went back and rewrote the last chapter. It wasn’t sitting well with me, either :P

The day dawned bright and clear, a brilliant light that Hrodwynn was sure must reach all the way to the Undercity. It made her eyes water when she first stepped outside, behind Aveline and in front of Fenris. The mirror shine on Aveline’s uniform didn’t help, either. No matter where Hrodwynn positioned herself, there was always some little reflection off of some polished metal that flashed in her eyes. It stung and quickly became annoying, and well before they reached the gate, Hrodwynn was wishing again she had stayed in Anders’ clinic.

Then she saw him standing there, waiting for their little group. Oh, sure, Hawke was nearby, deep in conversation with Varric, and Isabela saying something to Merril that made the elf’s cheeks turn red and the pirate snicker. But Carver stood slightly to the side of the party, his eyes sweeping up and down the street so he was the first who spotted them. And he smiled, warmly, lifting his hand to draw their attention. It seemed like Carver was looking only at her, and for some reason, that made her heart skip a beat.

Her feet skipped, too. It was a small stutter-step, hardly enough to notice, but quickly she felt Fenris’ hand on her elbow steadying her. And just as quickly it left.

“Well, that’s all of us, then,” Hawke declared when the three of them joined the rest. Hrodwynn shifted her pack on her shoulders and tried not to feel nervous about the sea of uniforms between them and the gates. “Shall we? Hrodwynn, you stay in the middle of the group, between Carver and Merril. These aren’t the guards looking for you, but why take chances? Aveline, I think you should be up front with me, just in case the guards are disagreeable about letting us through.”

Aveline sighed, “You’re using my future position. Again.”

Hawke laughed, gracing her with a charming smile and a slight bow. “What’s the use of having a position like ‘Future Captain of the Guard,’ if you can’t use it to your advantage? At least every now and again. But I promise, Aveline, I won’t abuse your position. Much.”

Aveline rolled her eyes, but she moved up next to Hawke’s side. The rest of them gathered around, Fenris joining Hawke and Aveline, Varric and Isabela bringing up the rear. Hrodwynn shifted her pack again. Both Fenris and Aveline had offered to take a share of all the salves and potions—she had overpacked not knowing what they might encounter—but she insisted on carrying her own load. There was no way in the Void she was going to give Hawke an excuse to treat her like a child!

The guards at the gate let them pass with hardly a ripple of a fuss, and she felt her shoulders slump with relief as they stepped out from beneath the portcullis. The others carried on light conversations, Isabela telling Varric a story about her pirating days, Merril scoffing disbelievingly, which only encouraged Isabela to embellish more. Varric’s eyes the whole time glittered with mirth, his quick mind taking in every detail of the story—and no doubt rewriting it to suit his own taste.

Hawke and Fenris talked quietly, far enough ahead that no one else heard what was spoken. Every once in a while Hawke would turn to glance at the elf, an odd sort of expression on his face, something akin to surprise or… guile? Hrodwynn didn’t know, only that the look made her feel strange and want to turn away. She did see that Fenris hardly took notice, his eyes intent on scanning the countryside and seldom resting on Hawke long enough to catch these strange, brief expressions.

The morning passed uneventfully and quietly. Aveline had ranged ahead to scout the path, though what she expected to find eluded Hrodwynn. The world opened up beyond the city gates to a large and empty expanse, without buildings or alleys, only low hills and small bushes, all surmounted by a large blue sky that seemed to go on forever…

“You alright?” Carver asked. He had stayed beside her, even after Merril dropped back and the others pulled ahead. So far he had been as quiet as she, and seemingly content to remain so, mutely listening to Isabela’s yarns spinning out behind them.

“Of course I am,” Hrodwynn answered quickly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, especially Hawke’s attention. Then, thinking Carver might be simply being nice, she asked, “You?” She risked looking up at him, saw his soft blue eyes full of care and concern, and had to offer him a smile, which he warmly returned.

“I’ll admit to being a little footsore, but nothing to complain about, yet.”

“We could stop at the next pond and let you soak your tired tootsies,” Hawke offered, his sarcastic voice thrown over his shoulder. “Otherwise, try to push on a bit longer, would you?”

Carver didn’t answer, knowing no matter how softly he said anything, his voice would carry to his brother’s sharp ears. He did send an angry, resentful sort of look at his back. When he turned back to Hrodwynn, however, his expression was warm once more. “Is your pack too heavy? I could carry some of it, if you’d like.”

“No,” again she answered too quickly, feeling guilty as his mouth made an ‘O’ shape and his gaze dropped away. Immediately she tried to make recompense, touching his arm and softening her voice as she continued, “No, thank you, I can manage.”

“Alright,” he shrugged, and leaned closer to her so the next part of their conversation might actually stay private. “It’s only that, it looks like something’s bothering you. You’ve shifted your pack eleven times since we’ve started; and, yes, I’ve counted. I thought, if it was too heavy, I could help with that. But if it’s something else…” he glanced ahead of them, seemingly looking at Hawke.

Well, she thought to herself, that sort of made sense. She didn’t get along with Hawke, and she knew he’d rather Anders was here instead of her. She was also beginning to see that the two brothers truly didn’t get along—she had heard of sibling rivalry, but what was between them went deeper. She also knew, that was something of which she didn’t want to get in the middle.

“It’s… no… I’m fine, Carver… it’s just…” her voice trailed off into awkward muteness. She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a spunky smile, lifting her chin, daring him to contradict her.

He gave a small scoff but gave in, if somewhat reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll quit pressuring you. But, Wynnie, if you ever want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Up ahead of them, though Hawke hadn’t heard more than a few syllables of the conversation between Hrodwynn and Carver, Fenris had been able to make out several of the words. It brought to mind a pressing problem of his, and he figured there would never be a better time to bring it up with Hawke. “I, ah,” yet again those damnable words stuck in his throat. Fenris had to force the rest of them out slightly rushed, “Need to ask you something.”

Hawke heard the tone in his voice, and mistook it for embarrassment. It wasn't often that Fenris spoke, much less asked questions or initiated a conversation with him. He suppressed the triumphant smirk, cautioning himself it might not be what he was hoping—that Fenris was showing interest in him. He kept his expression open and mild as he answered, “Oh? This sounds interesting.”

“I… have a problem… “ The words were coming out in chunks, but at least they were coming out.

Hawke had to admit his curiosity was almost palatable. Here was Fenris, the proud, self-sufficient, self-freed slave, coming to him with a problem. Not as good as he had hoped, but still promising, still an opportunity for him to create a rapport between them. “Anything I can help with?”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re the only one who can.”

Hearing the dark and angry tone of voice, he realized he had forgotten to add mage-hater to the list of Fenris' attributes. Oh, this had to gall the elf, asking a mage for help, but making light of it would only alienate him. So Hawke schooled his features even tighter, and waited patiently for him to continue.

“I… can’t go to Isabela or Varric; they would only make fun, of her and me.”

Hawke nodded sympathetically, encouraging him to elaborate.

“Merril’s too… bah!” he made a disgusted noise, making it clear how little he thought of the blood-magic user, “And Aveline’s too straightforward. I’m not even sure of it, only suspect it, but if she does, then Aveline’s heavy-handedness would not be welcomed. I don’t want to embarrass her, only…”

“Yes, well, love to help, but I’m afraid you’ve lost me," he interrupted. "What is the problem?”

Fenris looked at him, at first a little surprised, then a little confused, and finally a little sheepish. A small exhale escaped his lips, like a self-directed scoff, or it might have been a cough. Hawke imagined he saw the faintest tint of a blush on his cheeks, but he refrained from pointing it out. Fenris faced forward and parted his lips again, the words slipping out a little more comprehensible this time, “I suspect Hrodwynn is developing a crush on me. I need to discourage it; a young girl like her would only get hurt, spending time with someone like me. But… I don’t know how… I don’t even know if she is…” The words dried up again, and he looked away, pretending to scan the area for danger.

“Ah, I think I understand,” he nodded sagely. He had already seen signs of Hrodwynn's infatuation with Fenris, but knowing that Fenris saw it too, and found it unwelcome, made him feel that much more confident he could have the elf for himself. Of course, he'd have to distract the girl first. He could do that fairly easily, but it would be distasteful. Yet perhaps he could use that to his advantage, garner a favor from the elf due to the inconvenience. He didn’t smile in triumph, but he did allow a knowing twitch to pull at the corner of his mouth, well hidden beneath his beard. “I think I can help, but it’ll cost you.”

“I’m afraid of where this is going…”

“Oh, nothing too serious. A favor for a favor, that’s all I ask.” He leaned in to brush his shoulder against Fenris in a manner that might have been mistaken for a misstep, only he was far too careful of the spiky armor. “And it won’t be that large of a favor, I promise.”

“Really?”

Hawke could imagine him narrowing his eyes, but Fenris kept his face turned away. “Really. The solution I have in mind is quite simple, but it will inconvenience me somewhat.” Fenris remained looking away, so he tried another tactic. “I tell you what. I’ll bet you that Hrodwynn won’t be thinking of you by the time we return to Kirkwall. If she still shows infatuation, then you don’t owe me the favor. Fair enough?”

At last Fenris looked back at him, suspicion still strong in that predatory gaze, but there was a willingness—a need—to trust. “Why do I feel like I’m only putting myself further and further in your debt? I manage to free myself of slavery, only to sell my life into indentured servitude. And to another mage, no less.”

Hawke let the implied slur pass. He could understand Fenris’ aversion towards mages—he’d have to keep Fenris and Merril separate on future occasions—and the cutting self-loathing he must be feeling, having to go to a mage for help. It would take time, probably a long time, before he could change Fenris’ mind about him, but he was sure it would be worth it. “The favor I have in mind won’t last longer than a day, I promise.”

“What is it?”

“No, no, no,” he shook his head a little flirtatiously, allowing the smile to shift his beard out of the way, “There has to be some risk on your part, or where’s the fun? So, do you accept my terms?”

Fenris looked away again, but answered, “What choice to I have?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well. I accept your terms. Now, what should I do to discourage her?”

“Nothing,” he said glibly.

Hawke watched him snap his head around, sure he popped a few joints in his neck with the suddenness of the movement. He looked at him from beneath ebony brows drawn down in anger, his gravely voice growing darker as he accused, “Is this some sort of trick? Or a joke? Are you mocking me?”

“No, no, calm yourself,” he barely kept from flinching at the rage and hatred emanating off of Fenris like a wall of heat. He waited until the other’s stance relaxed—minimally—before he explained himself. “Nothing like that at all. I only meant to say, you don’t have to do anything; I’ll do it.”

“You’ll speak to her?” he asked, cautious and more than a little disbelieving.

“I’ll speak to Carver.”

The incongruity of the statement served its purpose; Fenris was completely off balance. His ire evaporated like vapor, his brows scrunched in confusion. “I… I profess, I… don’t understand…”

It was hard to resist the long-suffering sigh, but he did his best. “Carver has a crush on Hrodwynn—has since the first moment we met her. And yes, I am sure—he’s my little brother; I’ve known him all his life. He’s as easy to see through as water. And just as easy to manipulate.” He stole a glance, and was encourage to see Fenris’ expression soften minutely. “All I have to do is discourage him, or even better forbid him to spend time with her. He’ll start pursuing her all the more, and I don’t doubt she’ll take an interest in him—someone closer to her own age—should he show an interest in her. I haven’t so far simply because I know how he’ll react, and though I really couldn’t care whom he sleeps with, I’d rather not know about it. But once I start making any sort of protesting or discouraging noises, he’ll push harder for her attentions.” Hawke finally let go of the sigh, a little dramatically, but it was warranted. “Now you see why you’ll owe me a favor? Carver’s going to be insufferable, mooning after Hrodwynn, speaking of her constantly, creating excuses to spend time with her, bringing her along on every little errand… ugh!”

Fenris hardly registered Hawke's finishing tirade, thinking that he should have thought of this himself.  He had noticed the way Carver acted around her—his little gestures and warm smiles, the clumsy touches that he tried to make seem accidental. He supposed the option hadn't occurred to him because he had been aware that Hawke didn't get along with Hrodwynn. Yet if he was willing to do this, to encourage his brother to spend time with a girl he didn't like, for his sake… “Are you sure?”

Hawke winked at him, knowing he'd just made progress in his relationship with Fenris. “Watch.” He turned around suddenly, walking backwards so he could look at the two full in the face, and declared loudly, “Would you leave the poor girl alone? You’re embarrassing her. If you’re serious about her satchel, you can help her repack it when we make camp tonight and take some of the weight yourself. Until then, stop pestering her. You're being too obvious about it.” He finished with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Hrodwynn hadn’t been expecting the abruptness of Hawke’s declaration, or the way his voice easily carried down the path to them and further to the others behind. She could hear Isabela’s chuckle, Varric’s interested hum, and Merril’s curious little oh.

She could also feel Carver tense beside her, the indignation making the muscles of his arms tremble. Before she merely hadn’t wanted to get between the two brothers; now she added not wanting to be the cause of their dissension. “Carver,” she said softly, taking hold of his upper arm, feeling the muscles flex beneath her touch. “Carver, please, I’m fine, it’s not the pack, really, it’s not too heavy, just…”

“What?” he pressed, perhaps a little too heatedly after his brother's goading.

“Hawke!” Aveline's call interrupted their conversation. She had returned to their group, or rather they had caught up to where she was waiting for them, leaning against a large boulder. The road had reached a stream, crossing it over a stone bridge. On the near side was a small grassy area just large enough for their group to sit comfortably. “I thought this might be a good place to rest for a bit, have a bite to eat and the like. Not all of us are used to marching all day on empty stomachs.”

“Oh, good idea,” piped up Merril. “I could do with a bite of something.”

“So could I,” Isabela agreed suggestively, sauntering up to the small stream and shrugging out of her pack, arching her back and thrusting her breasts out.

“Hungry already, Rivaini?” Varric chuckled, “And here I thought you would’ve gotten your fill last night.”

“Perish the thought, Varric. Why?” she tilted her head, her eyes casting up and down the length of him. “Do you know where I can get my hands on some meat way out here?”

Aveline reached into her pack and tossed something at Isabela. It bounced off her ample bosom and landed in the grass at her feet. “This should hold you over.”

Isabela bent over to pick up the dried beef. “Thanks.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Aveline; she simply chose to ignore it. “Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, seems the decision’s been made,” Hawke declared, only somewhat disgruntled. “And I suppose this stream would be a good place to replenish our water supply. We’ll rest here for an hour, then move on. I’d like to find a good place to camp before it gets dark.”

Hrodwynn gratefully slipped out of her pack, but kept a tight grip on the straps as she set it carefully on the ground. She didn’t want any of the glass vials or jars to break. With the weight off her shoulders, she stretched her neck and rubbed at the soreness there, feeling the tenderness that warned her skin was red and raw. Again she thought it would have been better to have stayed in Anders’ clinic, even if she would have had to remain hidden in her little loft, constantly on guard against surprise search parties.

Then Carver was there, standing over her, a timid, hopeful sort of expression on his face. In his hands was a handkerchief, dampened and cooled by the water from the stream. “Here, this should help,” he held it out to her as a sort of offering.

Despite the coolness of the cloth, his hands were warm. Very warm. She felt the heat as her fingers lifted the rag from his. “Thank you,” she blushed, draping the cloth around her neck.

“Would you, that is,” he leaned in closer so he could speak even softer, “Would you want to walk for a bit? I know we’ve been walking all morning, but we could put some distance between us and the others. Just to sit and talk. Privately.”

He wasn’t going to drop the matter about what was causing her discomfort. She took a deep breath, but started walking with him, her eyes on the ground, not sure what to say, what the right words were that could express her feelings. “It’s not the pack, Carver, really. I mean, I know it’s heavy, I packed it, and I didn’t know what to expect, so I probably packed way too much and too many things we won’t need…”

“Fine, it’s not the pack,” he allowed. “But there is something bothering you, isn't there?”

They were upstream from the others, who had remained sitting comfortably on the grass. Hrodwynn glanced over her shoulder before they disappeared from view behind a small hillock. “I… maybe… perhaps… I don’t know… what… to say…”

Carver swallowed, nodding as if he understood her hesitation. “It’s that knife ear, isn’t it? I knew we shouldn’t have let you spend the night with him. What did he do? Did he hurt you? Scare you? Did he… did he touch you…?”

“What?!” she finally managed to overcome the shock regarding his vehemence and tried stop his groundless accusations. “No! Fenris didn’t… do… anything. He…" The memory of taking the healing potion and her babbling through supper came back to mind. "We talked, had somewhat to eat, went to bed.” She bit her lip and shut her eyes tight, trying hard not to think about his putting her to bed. He'd only taken off her boots and covered her with a blanket, completely innocent, but it didn't seem Carver would be inclined to believe such a thing. “I mean, separate beds. Separate rooms! Nothing happened. If anything, he was very nice.”

“Then…” he allowed her excuse, at least where Fenris was concerned. But he knew something was wrong, and he wouldn’t let it go. “Hrodwynn,” he started again, paused to cup her chin and get her to look at him, “Wynnie, please, I’ve felt you trembling all morning, ever since we left Kirkwall. Something’s the matter. What is it? Tell me, please, I want to help.”

She swallowed, blinking rapidly at the sensation of her heart racing as if she was running from those mercenaries again. And she wanted to run, the impulse almost overpowering, the need to run away from something she couldn’t define. It took three tries of opening her mouth before she could manage to make sounds, and a couple more tries before they would form words. “Sky… grass… hills… go on… forever… no walls… no streets… open… no cover… no people!” She hiccoughed, trying to pull all the emotion back inside, but it was no use. In a final blurb, she moaned, “It’s so empty out here!”

Carver was shocked into stillness for almost three seconds, never having imagined anyone would go through what she was feeling. Then he pulled her to his chest, his arms wrapped around her protectively. “I think I understand,” he spoke gently. “You’ve never been outside Kirkwall before, have you?” She shook her head, her cheek rubbing against the lacings on his vest, her hair catching in a buckle. He pulled the strands free before they could tug at her scalp, then left his hand in place, stroking through her short locks.

“No. Never. At least, not that I remember.” She bit her lip, trying to stop the chattering, but it was no use. Once started, the words couldn't stop. “Why does it go on forever?”

“What?” he was slightly perplexed at her question.

“The sky,” she pulled back slightly to look up at him. “It’s way, way, up there. And it reaches all the way around like… like… like some monstrous awning that’s gonna fall on us and… and we’ll be trapped and suffocate and…”

He wanted to laugh, but he knew that would upset her more. “It’s not an awning,” he reassured her. “And it’s not going to fall. Think of it as a ceiling, one that’s too high for you to reach. You should be used to that, having things out of your reach, being so short and all.”

She knew he was teasing her, and wanted to slug him for it, but instead had to duck her head to hide the giggle. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry for teasing you,” he apologized. “But, truthfully, the sky isn’t going anywhere. And as for the emptiness, look around. No, really,” he held her shoulders and pushed her back from him, just enough so she could see something other than his chest. “Anytime you start feeling overwhelmed, I want you to look around. There are hills nearby. Mountains further off, like the one we’re headed towards. And there are trees and bushes. Lots of rocks. And animals. Loads of birds, and rabbits, and foxes, and…” he paused to swat at something biting his neck, “…insects.”

This time she let him see the giggle.

“Feeling better?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do. Thank you, Carver.” She reached up on tiptoe and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“For calming your fears?” he wondered aloud, his hands back to her shoulders, keeping her from slipping away.

“That too, but mostly for making me talk when I didn’t want to. And for understanding, and not making fun of me.”

“In all fairness, I did make fun of you, just a little.”

“Yes, you did,” her eyes narrowed dangerously, “And I’m gonna make you pay for that. Later. For now, I think we should get back to the others, while we still have time to eat something before we have to start marching again.”

He pulled a small packet out of a pouch on his belt. “Or we could eat right here,” he offered, unwrapping it to reveal the wedge of cheese. “Not much, I know, but you don’t really want to do a lot of walking on a full stomach.”

“This is fine.” She sat down on the ground next to him, sharing the cheese as he pointed out all the things to look at, all the things that filled up the emptiness, so she wouldn’t feel quite so uncomfortable.

“You know, you could talk with Merril,” Carver offered after they were finished eating. “She has kind of the same problem, but opposite. She’s lived all her life out in the countryside, and moving to a crowded city with lots of buildings and very few trees upsets her as much as the open countryside upsets you.”

Hrodwynn looked up at him, a curious little smile on her face. “I think I will do that, when we get back to Kirkwall. Right now,” she stood up and dusted off her backside, “We should go before your brother leaves us behind.”

“There’s time yet,” he stalled, jumping up to move between her and the road. He really didn’t want to go back there, not yet, not while they had had such a good conversation, and were relatively alone. The bright sunlight set her hair aflame with deep red streaks, like strings of rubies falling through the strands. He pulled his fingers through the locks, enjoying the feel of the short, soft hairs.

Hrodwynn swallowed, not sure what she was feeling, not sure what he was doing, but knowing it was making her heart beat faster again, though in a much more agreeable way than before. He tilted his head and bent his neck, lowering his face towards hers. She kept still, paralyzed by uncertainty, as her mind raced with one thought: oh, bloody Void, he’s going to kiss me…

His lips touched hers, sending her eyelids crashing closed, choking her breath in her throat. It was… pleasant, and warm, and new, and frightening, and exciting, and…

“Here you are!” Hawke’s caustic voice was far too loud and close, making them start guiltily away from each other. “So glad you didn’t fall into the stream and drown, or get yourselves carried off by ravenous werewolves.”

Carver clenched the fist at his side, and the hand on her shoulder tightened fractionally. He turned his head far enough to see his brother striding towards them. “Garrett…”

“If the two of you are done snogging, do you think we could get going? I’d like to get as far as we can today, so there’s less traveling to do tomorrow. Don’t know what we’ll find at the mine, but it would be best not to be too tired out from the trek.”

“We weren’t snogging, we were…”

“Don’t even try, Junior,” Varric advised as he came up beside Hawke, his crossbow at the ready, obviously having expected danger when the two of them hadn't returned to the clearing. He had a hard time suppressing a smile as he rehung his crossbow down his back. “It wouldn’t be very convincing, not with the looks on your faces.”

Carver set his jaw, hating the knowing winks they were giving him. He took her hand and started back towards the road. “Come on, Wynnie, let’s go get our packs and leave these dirty-minded busybodies to themselves.”

Hrodwynn had to almost run to keep up with his long strides, but she was as willing as he to leave the smirking Hawke and chuckling Varric behind them. Back at the clearing, the others were milling around, packs and weapons at the ready. Carver helped Hrodwynn into her pack before grabbing his.

“Everyone set? Good. Let’s move out. Carver, why don’t you scout ahead this afternoon? See if you can find a nice place for us to make camp.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order, one that Carver couldn’t refuse. He thought about taking Hrodwynn with him, but knew that would be a bad idea, especially if they came across any trouble. He gave a surly nod and started off at a jog to get ahead of everyone.

The rest fell back into their earlier subgroups, with Aveline taking Carver's position beside Hrodwynn and walking along in comfortable silence. Fenris had watched Carver head off before turning to look at Hawke, who gave him a cheeky wink. “Like I said, you didn’t have to do a thing.”

* * *

 

“And there are so many buildings,” Merril was chattering pleasantly at Hrodwynn’s elbow, “They seem to go on forever. Like I’m in some sort of maze, and I’ll never be able to find my way out again. At least, I had been feeling that way, until Varric gave me that ball of yarn.”

Hrodwynn thought she had to be joking this time, but Varric called out a, “You’re welcome,” from the other side of the campfire that made her reconsider.

Carver had found a copse of trees, hidden from the road behind a low hill, that made a perfect campsite. So perfect, in fact, that it showed evidence of having been used before. Not too recently, however, nor too often to put Hawke off the idea of using it for the night. Hrodwynn had watched with amazement while the others quickly set up camp, each seeming to know what they needed to do, even though she was fairly sure they had never camped together before. When they were finished—partly to make up for her lack of help earlier—she had volunteered to cook supper.

Now they sat around the fire, talking, trading stories, and subtly arguing over who would clean the dishes stacking up beside the wash bucket. “That’s kind of how I feel about this,” Hrodwynn admitted, glad that she had taken Carver’s advice and started the conversation with the Dalish elf. It felt good to open up to someone, to share—even a little bit—of her private thoughts and fears. “I’ve never been outside the city before, at least that I can remember, and seeing all this, well, openness, gives me the jitters. I mean, where are all the buildings? Where do the people live?”

“Oh, well, my people, the Dalish, we live where we please. Travel in aravels pulled by halla.”

Hrodwynn shot her an amused smile. “That made absolutely no sense, other than the live-where-you-please part. But what about the other people?”

“What other people?”

Hrodwynn blinked, unsure how to explain.

“The humans live in their towns and cities,” Merril continued without skipping a beat. “The dwarves mostly live underground in their own cities. A few live up here on the surface, like Varric.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t forgotten,” he deadpanned.

“The other elves, well, they generally live in the cities, too, in places like the Alienage. If they’re not servants or slaves, that is. Then they live in their master’s house.”

“But,” she tried to get the subject back on track. Fenris was talking quietly with Isabela, and Hrodwynn noted the dark look he shot at Merril when she spoke of servants and slaves. “But where do the people live out here? Where there aren't any houses.”

“Oh. They don’t,” Merril admitted matter-of-factly. “If you don’t see a city or a town with farmland around it, or a clan of Dalish, then there are no people living in this area of the countryside.”

Hrodwynn felt a little shudder at those words, imagining all the emptiness. No, not empty of everything, merely empty of people. She forced herself to look around them. Like Carver said, there were other things here to fill the space. And at this moment they were camped within a sort of room made from the tightly packed trees, the branches spreading overhead to almost block out the night. And the sky was only a big ceiling, and ceilings didn’t fall on you.

“You alright?” Merril asked, setting her hand on her shoulder.

“Yes!” she pulled her eyes down from the irregular opening through the branches. She saw Merril looking at her with sympathetic eyes and gave her a bright smile in return. “Yes, I’m fine, just a little… I don’t know…”

“I understand,” Merril nodded.

“You know,” added Varric, settling himself on her other side after dropping his plate off by the bucket, “A lot of dwarves feel the same way, the first time they come up to the surface. They take one look at that sky, and start to feel like they’re going to fall up into it.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke said drolly, stacking his plate with Varric’s, mutely stating he wasn’t going to do the washing up either, “Give her another anxiety.”

“Only trying to help. They do say misery loves company.”

“No, that’s alright, Varric. I appreciate the thought.” She gave a nervous sort of titter. “Actually, I don’t feel so much like I’m going to fall up into it, as it’s going to fall down onto me.”

“Why would it fall?” asked Merril.

“Well, because. What’s holding it up?” returned Hrodwynn.

“Nothing. Nothing’s holding it up.”

Hrodwynn stared at her for a long moment, the firelight flickering over their profiles. “Yup, not helping.”

“Don’t worry, Button,” Varric said soothingly, “Even if the sky falls, you and me will be just fine. We’re short enough, it’ll hit everyone else on the head first.”

She let the giggle out this time, unable to help herself, imagining the big blue plane smacking Hawke in the head, the big-headed arse able to prop it up all on his own. Then another thought occurred to her, and she had to ask, “…Button…?”

“Yes, Button, as in ‘cute as a…’ Not as good as ‘Kitten,’ but it’ll do. At least you and Merril won't get confused over who's who. Well,” he leaned in close to whisper for her ears only, "Merril won't get confused. Never worried about you for a moment."

“Hah!” declared Isabela triumphantly, backhanding Fenris on his chest. “I won! Pay up.”

“I’ll pay,” Fenris groused, or he might not have groused, it was hard for anyone to tell the way his voice was always so deep and vexed. “The next time I have the coin, that is.”

“Bah, I knew I should never make a bet with an elf.”

“What bet?” Hawke asked, wondering if he should fish around for the coin to cover Fenris’ debt, or if the offering would insult the proud elf.

“I bet Fenris that I could get Varric to change his nickname for Hrodwynn. He did. Now Fenris owes me three silvers. And I have all of you for witnesses.”

“I’m good for it.”

“Of course you are, love,” Isabela leaned against his arm, mindful of the spikes. “A woman like me, just wants to have a little extra insurance. You understand.” She cocked her head, a wicked smile spreading her pouty lips. “I tell you what, I’ll make a new bet with you: that I can guess the color of your underpants before we get back to Kirkwall. Double or nothing.”

“Deal,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “But you can’t guess a color like ‘green;’ you have to be specific, as in ‘chartreuse’.”

“Fine,” she readily agreed, “Chartreuse?”

“No.”

“Mint?”

“No.”

“Lime?”

“No.”

“Celadon?”

“No.”

“Is it even in the green family of colors?”

“No hints.”

Hawke cleared his throat loudly.

“So, Hrodwynn,” Varric talked a little louder to cover up the guessing game, “You finally cracked a Siggerdson, huh?”

“Ah…” she glanced nervously at Aveline, who was trying not to look like she could hear. “You know it wasn’t me, Varric. You said I was with you all day yesterday.”

He laughed, clapping her on the shoulder, as Merril moved away to start washing up. “That I did. Still, whoever did it, they would have quite a reputation now, wouldn’t they?”

“Oh, yes,” she smiled broadly, nodding and catching on, “That would be the reason to risk it, wouldn’t it? I mean, I know I would like to have that sort of reputation, being one of the few people who could crack a Siggerdson. It was the reason I joined up with you on Fenris’ job, because there was supposed to be one involved. Still, it’s not something one can talk about, is it, or people will think you’re just making it up.”

“Exactly,” agreed Varric. “You have to go carefully when building a reputation. You can’t spread it yourself, or you appear a braggart. But if it gets out that a Siggerdson was broken into, by some mysterious person, whose physical description might sort of resemble you…”

Hrodwynn blushed. “Amazing how even in broad daylight, no one got a clear enough look at her, did they.”

“Careful, Button,” Varric hummed, “You’re almost bragging.”

There were several sputters of laughter around the campfire, and a loud cough from Aveline’s direction.

“Hrodwynn,” Merril knelt in front of the bucket, talking while happily scrubbing away at the remains of supper, “I’ve been meaning to talk with you, get to know you a little better. You sit and listen to the stories we tell, but we hardly know anything about you. For instance, I know you’re staying in Anders’ clinic, but he’s not family, is he?”

She shook her head. “No, I met Anders last winter, while looking for a warm place to spend the night.”

“See? That’s it exactly. You’ve hardly talked about yourself, where you come from, do you have any family, things like that.”

She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the fire, uncomfortable with the thought that everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to speak. Even Isabela and Fenris had paused their game to listen. “I’m pretty much what you see. A young woman. Good at picking locks. And staying in Anders’ clinic, I’ve learned a little about healing, too. Not much else to know.”

“But,” Merril was oblivious to the suggestive stare Hawke was giving her, or Varric’s uncomfortable shifting as he tried to think of a topic to interrupt them. “But, don’t you have family? Parents?”

She pursed her lips a moment before answering. “Suppose so. At some point. Must’ve, right?”

“Don’t you remember them? Oh, did they die?” she asked quietly, her voice compassionate as she paused in her scrubbing to give the girl her full attention.

Hrodwynn drew one knee up to her chin, resting her cheek on it as she spoke to the flames. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “I… I can’t remember.”

Merril set aside the last plate and said softly, “Oh, you poor thing. What happened? I mean, what can you remember?”

She tried hard to ignore the burning sensation behind her eyes, not wanting to cry in front of the others or they’d think she was just a child. “I…” her voice was raspy, and she had to give a little cough to clear her throat before she could answer. “I don’t remember anything before a few years ago. The first memory I have, I’m lying on some wooden boards, and my head hurts, and it’s bleeding. There’s shouting behind me, and I remember feeling afraid but I can’t remember why.” She gave another shrug, “And then I was running. Just… running, trying to get away from the shouting, from the fear, trying to find a place to hide. Guess I must’ve fallen or jumped off of a ship, and hit my head when I landed on the docks.

“I stopped running somewhere in Lowtown,” she continued, not really knowing why. Maybe it was like her fear of the openness, that talking about it—sharing it with someone—made her feel better, “Next to a merchant’s shop. Owned by a nice lady, Margret, a Ferelden. She saw me trying to keep warm, curled up on her stoop. She took me in, bandaged my head, gave me some food, and a name when I couldn't remember mine. She even tried teaching me her trade. Only she was old, and died a few months later. She said she was going to leave me some money, but after her death her son came and said there was nothing for me, and I had to leave, unless I wanted to become his ‘special assistant’.”

Isabela’s eyes grew dark and dangerous, one hand itching to stray to the handle of her dagger. But it was Aveline who spoke, her words more a statement than a question. “So you headed to Darktown.”

Hrodwynn nodded, “Had to. No place else to go. And I hadn’t made any friends, besides Margret. I taught myself how to pick pockets, and locks, and pick up any extra coin that others didn’t want or were too rich to remember they had. Never stole from anyone who needed the coin themselves. Moved around the city a lot, until I met Anders and decided he needed me to look after him. It works out alright between us: he keeps a roof over my head, and I make sure he remembers to eat once in a while.”

“This merchant fellow,” Isabela asked, not wanting to let that part of the story slip past, “Is he still around? I’d like to pay him a visit!”

“He’s gone,” she sighed, “Spent all his profits on drinking and gambling, and when the Blight hit, he didn’t have anything left to see him through the slump in business. I think he ended up getting rolled in a back alley, his throat slit by people he owed money to.”

“Not satisfying,” she growled low, “But fitting enough, I suppose.”

“So, that’s why you took a Coterie job,” inferred Varric, “Because it was at the Harbormaster’s Office. Hoping to find a clue to your past, or the ship you fell from, or something?”

She nodded. “Stupid, really. The safe was full of papers, but I couldn’t read them. I mean,” she looked up at Aveline, her eyes wide, suddenly realizing what she had confessed to, “Ah, that is, I didn’t…”

Aveline sighed. “Never mind, Hrodwynn. Tell you what: I can look into this for you, if you want. When did you arrive in Kirkwall? Before the Blight, you said?”

“Yes. About four years before.”

“When we get back to Kirkwall, I’ll take a look through the records at the Viscount’s Keep, see if I can find any reference to a missing person from around that time, someone who matches your description.”

“Thank you, Aveline.” New tears were trying to form, stinging her eyes for new reasons. Here was a woman, from a different side of the city—a different side of the law!—who was willing to help her, knowing she would receive no personal gain. This was not the sort of person she was used to dealing with, and it left her feeling hopeful, like maybe she just might find out something about herself.

“I just need to know about how old you were when you arrived. Any idea?”

“What?” she asked, that slim shimmer of hope fading quickly.

“How old are you? If you arrived in Kirkwall, say around 9:26, that would make it five years ago. If you’re twenty now, that would put you about fifteen then, so I’d know to look for a missing young woman. But if you’re only fifteen now, then you would’ve been ten back then, and I should look for reports of a missing child.”

“I… I don't know my age.”

“You must have some idea,” Aveline pressed on doggedly, not seeing the tears forming. “I’d guess you’re young, still growing, as you’re taller than a dwarf but shorter than an elf, though not by much. Fenris can just see over the top of your head, but he’s tall for an elf. So, how about it? Are you still growing? Or are you just short for a human?”

Hrodwynn was silent, unsure how to answer.

“Let’s try something different,” Isabela offered, but Hrodwynn got the feeling this wasn’t going to be much better. “Something a little more definitive. You’ve been getting monthly visits, haven’t you?”

“Maker!” Hawke swore, “Do you have to bring that up?” He looked directly at his brother before adding, “And you wonder why I prefer men.”

Hrodwynn buried her face in her hands, unable to believe that the heat from her cheeks wasn’t burning her skin.

“Well,” Isabela prodded, and got a nod in response. “For how long, now?”

“Two years.” Her voice was small, barely carrying far enough to be heard over the crackling of the campfire.

“Hmm,” she tapped the stud through the skin beneath her lower lip, “That would make you, oh, about fourteen or fifteen. There you are, Aveline. Look for records of a missing girl, around nine or ten, from the year 9:26. And Hrodwynn,” she waited until the girl dared to peek between her fingers. Then she lifted her water skin in salute, “Happy fifteenth birthday!”

“Happy birthday!” Carver quickly followed suit, as did the others.

Hrodwynn risked a timid smile, still feeling the heat of embarrassment, but not so badly as before. These really were nice people, if a little bit of a strange mixture of rogues and soldiers, beggars and nobles. Most importantly, however, wasn’t the fact that they were so diverse, as the fact that they accepted her. Even Hawke, taking a deep swallow in her honor, seemed to have set aside some of his arrogant disdain for her.

And when her eyes slipped to Carver, the heat returned, though in a strangely enjoyable way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, a little bit of the mystery behind Hrodwynn has been cleared up. (What, you expected a full reveal? Where's the fun in that?)  
> I had to, just had to put in the guessing game between Isabela and Fenris. It was too damn funny. And reminded me too much of the old Xanth novels… (Yes, I know, I give some obscure references from time to time; get used to it.)  
> Just in case you didn’t catch it, or don’t suffer from it yourself, Hrodwynn was experiencing a mild attack of agoraphobia. I figured, being that it was her first time ever beyond the walls of Kirkwall, it called for a little something, and agoraphobia is a condition I deal with—though thankfully not to a debilitating extent. I kept her reaction mild, too, because I don’t want her to become inhibited by the phobia. So much yet to do in this story, she doesn’t need that!  
> But, personally, I do so get the dwarves and their fear of falling upwards into the sky :’D


	8. The Bone Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, not a very original title; but, hey, this is fan fiction… Think about it for a moment; it’ll come to you ;D

“You handle a needle better than you do that dagger of yours.”

Hrodwynn was staring at Varric’s chest, her delicate hands cool against his skin, hardly causing him any discomfort. Or that might’ve been due to the numbing salve she had used earlier. Regardless, she had made a little hum, like she hadn’t heard his comment, so he tried again. “How come you get squeamish in a fight, but not while closing a wound?”

“What?” she looked up from her work, having finished the last stitch. They were resting in a small cavern of the mine while Carver scouted ahead, giving her time to tend to any injuries. The only person hurt so far was Varric. A dragonling had jumped onto his back, piercing his coat and sinking its claws deep into his shoulder. Hawke had batted it away with the mace end of his staff, but it had left a deep, three inch long scratch on Varric’s chest.

“That first night we met,” he dropped his voice, not wanting the others to hear, “You must’ve lost your lunch four or five times. I figured it was because of all the blood and gore. But today you can sit here, calm as can be, and sew closed a bloody gash like it’s a tear in a tunic.”

She blinked at him, her emerald eyes glowing warmly. Little pink spots tinted her cheeks, and she ducked her head to the side. She picked up the poultice, pretending she had meant to reach for it all along and not hide her blush. Then she lifted her chin and turned back towards him, though her eyes remained focused on his chest and not his face. “I’ll take that for a compliment.” With precise aim, she placed the poultice directly over the wound, pressing down gently with one hand while she snagged a roll of bandages with the other.

“You go right ahead and do that… ahhhhh,” Varric made a sound of satisfaction, the paste of healing herbs cool against his skin.

“I guess… I don’t know,” she continued, talking while she worked, “It’s different, healing a wound instead of making one. I suppose, because I’m helping someone rather than harming, that my mind figures it’s alright to look at all the blood and unpleasantness—if that makes any sense. And while we’re on the subject of wounds, the cut’s not that bad. Should heal with hardly a scar after you take a healing potion.”

“Nah-uh,” his voice was deeper than normal, having tucked his chin to keep an eye on her while she wound the bandage around his chest. “Can’t afford to have my senses dulled, not until the mine is cleared. Besides, a scar will only add to my allure. Just think of all the women who will coo over the little scar marring my chest hair.”

“And think of the stories you could make up, explaining how it happened,” she agreed knowingly, finishing tying off the bandage. She met his eyes, smiling widely. “Varric, you’re incorrigible.”

His brows curved with hurt, as if somehow he felt he had been insulted or misjudged by her statement. “I try, Button,” he gave a weary sigh, “I do so try.”

“You could take a sip from one of the green bottles,” she pressed, helping him to his feet. “They’re a milder potion, not nearly as good, but they won’t make you dizzy or knock you off your feet like what I have in the red bottles.”

He grunted while she helped him back into his tunic, mindful of the tenderness and the bandages. “No thanks, Button. Like I said, can’t take the chance until the job’s done.” She grew quiet behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to see her biting her lip, wringing his coat in her hands. He was about to ask her what was wrong when Carver came jogging back towards them.

“Carver!” Hawke called out first, standing to greet him, “That was… quick. I take it we’re almost at the end of the mine?”

Carver’s eyes were wide, the soft blue orbs flickering around, hardly taking the time to rest on any one person or thing for more than two seconds. “Ah, sure, you could say that. The mine ends, at any rate. Opens up to a nice, wide pit with hardly any cover. Oh! And I almost forgot.” His voice dropped from the fake lightheartedness to an angsty scowl, “There’s a dragon.”

Hawke gave a loud, theatrical sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he answered, “Carver, that’s no surprise. We’ve been fighting dragons all through the tunnels…”

“Not this big,” he argued. At his brother’s exasperated eye-roll, he continued, “Take a look for yourself, if you don’t believe me. There’s a reason the smaller dragons were in here; afraid of being eaten. The one out there can’t fit in here to get at them.”

“Do dragons eat their young?” Merril asked.

“Sometimes, I wish my parents had…” Hawke quipped. “Alright, let’s go look at this big bad dragon of yours. Everyone else stay here.”

“Not for all the gold in Orzammar,” Varric groused, plucking his leather duster from Hrodwynn. He hissed with pain at the sudden and forceful movement, but stubbornly put his coat on, deciding to carry Bianca in his hands. Seeing as everyone else was going to ignore Hawke’s orders and go with to see the dragon, and not really wanting to be left behind in the dark caverns where they had just killed a score or so of smaller dragons, Hrodwynn stuffed her supplies haphazardly into her pack and raced after Varric and the others.

She caught up to them fairly quickly, coming up to Carver’s side and peeking around his bicep. They grouped near the opening of the tunnel, no one wanting to step forward into the light where they might be discernible to what was pacing outside. At first all she could see was a large shadow, stretched across the ground beyond the opening, reaching halfway across the pit. She wondered silently what time of day it was, hoping the sun was so low on the horizon that it cast a monstrous shadow for a smaller dragon. She gripped Carver’s arm when the shadow moved back from the opening and the dragon came into view.

And she understood why the other dragons hid in the tunnels.

Monstrous was too tame of a word to describe the size and heaviness and… evil rage emanating from the dragon. It had to be as big as the Chantry, she thought, easily larger than anything she’d ever seen. Perhaps the tip of its tail could fit inside the tunnel, but not much more than that. When it turned its head towards them, she stared into the black caverns of its nostrils and imagined she could walk inside them, standing straight up, and still have room above her head.

“First, is anyone else injured?” Hawke asked, turning away from the dragon, now that he had gotten a good look at it, and looking each and every one of them in the eye. “Come on. Speak up. I don’t want anyone to hide something,” he refused to look at Fenris, “That could cause fatigue or inhibit your movements during the fight.”

No one answered, until the silence grew too long and Merril shifted uncomfortably, “Well, not really, but I stubbed my toe, a little while ago, doesn’t hurt, though, so I suppose I’m alright to fight…”

Hawke stared at her a moment, trying to tell himself that she wasn't serious, that she was making light of the situation to ease everyone’s nervousness. He wasn’t sure, however; he simply didn’t know her well enough. “Right, here’s what we’re going to do. Aveline, you’re going to go in first, attack it front and center, keep its attention on you. Fenris, Carver, the two of you are going to flank it. While it’s focused on Aveline, attack it from its blindspots. Hamstring it, slice its wings, whatever weakness you can exploit. Merril, you and I are going to stay back, out of its reach, and hit it with every kind of spell we can think of. Keep going until you find something that weakens it. Understood?” At her nod, he turned to Isabela. “You, stay with Merril, watch her back…”

“You’re keeping us back from the fight because we’re women!” Isabela’s words weren’t so much a question as an accusation.

“Don’t be a dunce,” Aveline scolded, “Hawke has me charging the beast, and I’m a woman.”

“That’s debatable. Hawke, let me help. I can handle myself in a fight,” she argued, drawing her twin daggers and twirling them in her hands.

“I know it!” he agreed vehemently, “But this isn’t a barroom brawl. This is a fire-breathing dragon, and you’re not wearing any armor that can protect you. Stay with Merril. Keep her safe. There may be some more dragonlings or other dangers out there. Merril’s got to keep her focus on the dragon, so she’ll need you to watch her back.”

Isabela looked like she wanted to continue arguing, but conceded he had a point regarding her lack of fire-proofing. She closed her mouth and moved to stand near Merril, who was nervously picking at the gemstone on the head of her staff.

“And Varric,” he turned towards the dwarf, “Stay back with Hrodwynn, here in the tunnels. Fire from cover and…”

“Hawke…” he looked as upset as Isabela, and just as likely to argue, as he shifted his crossbow in his hands.

“Don’t argue with me, too, Varric. Hrodwynn’s important; keep her safe. We lose our healer, it won’t matter if we defeat the dragon or not. I’m sure your crossbow will be able to handle the distance, if you really feel you must help kill it.” He put his hand on Varric’s shoulder, the uninjured one, and said, “I’m counting on you. I promised Anders that not a hair on her head would be harmed, and I’m trusting you to help me keep that promise.”

Varric looked at Hrodwynn, how she clung to Carver’s muscled arm, how wide her eyes were and how her lower lip was trembling. “Shit, Hawke, since you put it that way…”

“Thank you,” he actually sounded sincere in his gratitude for keeping Hrodwynn safe, enough so that she finally tore her eyes from the dragon to look at him. And he did seem sincere, smiling a little at each of them and encouraging them with a nod or a swift slap on the shoulder. He came up beside Carver, who had to gently pry Hrodwynn’s fingers off his arm. “Everyone ready?”

“Ready,” Aveline shifted her shield before her and tightening her grip on her sword. Fenris and Carver nodded, narrowing their eyes as they mapped out the floor of the pit, where there was cover, planning their routes to flank the dragon. Merril could be heard talking to herself, her voice even tighter than normal, until Isabela leaned over and whispered something supportive in her ear. Varric took Hrodwynn’s hand. When she looked down at him, he gave her a wink and pulled her a few steps back from the others.

Hawke had been staring outside the whole time, trusting the others to prepare themselves, his main attention on the dragon. He timed it just right, waiting until the dragon was pacing away, which would give them the precious seconds they would need to exit the tunnel without tripping over each other. “Now! Go go go go!”

Hrodwynn turned away, letting go of Varric’s hand to stuff her knuckles into her mouth, keeping the scream inside. She didn’t understand, didn’t know how they could do it, how they could charge outside and face something larger than Kirkwall. Well, maybe not that large, but it seemed that way to her. It certainly was larger than she could have imagined. She heard the dragon bellow, Aveline’s shouted challenge, and a blast of wind that sounded like the roar of a furnace.

“You alright?” Varric asked, taking her elbow and pulling her fist from her mouth. “Hrodwynn? Wynnie?”

“How do they do it?” she asked, her voice sounding small in the nearly empty cavern, compared to the din of battle already starting up outside. “How do they race out there, face that… that… that thing! It’s a dragon. The mother of all dragons. How do they… just… I couldn’t… I’m too scared… but they ran out there and… how…?”

Varric set his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. “Because they each have a job to do. Don’t get me wrong, Button, they’re scared. We all are. Shit, I nearly pissed myself when I first saw the size of that thing. But being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. Being brave simply means you do what you have to, despite being scared. They each have a job, some small part of a plan, and when everyone does their part, the dragon will be killed. Doesn’t matter how big it is, because we’re all facing it together.” He cocked his crossbow, “And your part comes after, when we’ll need patching up.”

She turned and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, “Like looking at a gory wound, ignoring the mess, and knowing what needs to be done to heal it, and doing those things step by step until the job’s done?”

He nodded sagely. “Exactly. I knew you’d understand. Now, why don’t you busy yourself, setting out the things you might need later, while I get in a little target practice?” He hefted Bianca suggestively.

She sniffed and nodded, feeling a little better, and went over to where she had dropped her pack earlier.

“And, ah, Button, about what I said earlier, my pissing myself I mean, you won’t mention that to anyone, will you?”

She saw the look of apprehension on his features, and couldn’t suppress the smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Gotta think of your reputation, after all.”

He flashed her a wide grin. “That’s my girl!”

Hrodwynn did the best she could to keep herself busy while the battle wore on. She arranged the bottles of healing potion, took out two jars of salve for burns, made a neat pile of the rolls of bandages, prepped several healing poultices, lit a lantern for light… but at last she had nothing more to do other than play at rearranging things. She grew antsy, nervous, perhaps even bored on some perverse level, and crept over towards Varric to peek outside.

“Stay back, Button,” he warned, taking careful aim before letting loose a volley of three bolts in rapid succession. She gasped when every single bolt flew just over Aveline’s head to land, neatly grouped, right beside the dragon’s eye. “Damn, she’s pulling to the left,” he muttered, swinging a lever that ejected the spent cartridge of bolts.

Hrodwynn barely heard him, watching transfixed as the dragon, which had been about to blast fire at Aveline, jerked its head back and away, irritated by the bolts. A hind leg came up to swat at the pesky pinpricks, and it craned its neck to make the reach easier.

“Oh, no…” she groaned, fighting the scream welling up in her chest, wanting to stuff that knuckle back between her teeth.

“What is it?” Varric asked, locking the fresh cartridge in place before lifting his gaze up. “Andraste’s anointed ass,” he breathed, seeing what she had seen.

Fenris was at the dragon’s side, chopping at the hind leg paused in midair. In trying to scratch at the bolts beside its eye, the leg had extended and exposed the hamstrings, which Fenris was trying desperately to slice through before they were out of reach. Unfortunately, he was so focused on his target, that he didn’t notice the dragon had seen him and was pulling back its tail, aiming ever so carefully.

Hrodwynn was moving before she could think, racing out of the tunnel, racing ahead of her shouted warning. Fenris didn’t hear her, his mediative concentration on the leg dangling above him just within reach. He managed one more swing, before the tail struck from his blindside.

Her steps never paused, even as she watched Fenris folding like a rag doll, bending backwards above and below where the tail landed mid-thigh. His arms flung wide, his greatsword falling from suddenly nerveless fingers, his feet lifting off the ground as the tail propelled him through the air. She changed her trajectory to intercept him, his body landing bonelessly on the hard packed earth. She thought she could feel the force of the impact through the trembling ground beneath her feet, could feel the percussion through the air washing over her face.

Then she was on her knees beside him, her hands eagerly grasping at his shoulders, trying to lift him up while avoiding those dangerously spiked pauldrons.

“HAWKE!!!” Varric bellowed, racing out after her but too slow to catch her. He’d seen Fenris get struck, Hrodwynn reaching his side, and the dragon turning its attention on the two of them.

“Kaffas!” Fenris hissed, taking a moment to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain, gripping her arms so tightly he nearly broke skin. She didn’t answer him—though she did feel relief he was alive and conscious—but tried to get him up to where she could drag him out of danger. She glanced at the dragon to determine how far away it was, and her eyes widened in horror, seeing its opened maw aimed at them. Still unthinking, her body acting as if possessed by an outside force, she turned her back to the dragon and hunched over Fenris, protecting him as best as her slight frame would allow.

Fenris was in pain, his leg burning with an unquenchable fire, his breath staggering in his chest, his thoughts scattered from being thrown halfway across the pit. He could only feel and react, and feeling the pain increase when she tried to get him to move made him swear. He had wanted her to stop touching him, stop moving him, but when she did cease tugging on him, he had to blink in surprise. Momentarily confused by her abrupt change, he looked over her shoulder to see the dragon bearing down on them. Still unable to think, only able to react, he gripped her arms tighter and rolled their bodies, placing himself protectively over her.

Hrodwynn’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open, her brows curved with fear and panic and alarm and…

The dragon took one last step closer and…

Fenris kept his eyes locked on her face, wishing she was safe inside the tunnel, bending his head lower and…

…a blast of wind or some sort of force tore past them, from somewhere to her right, smacking the dragon directly on the jaw, the strength of the spell pushing its face to the side and causing its fiery breath to miss and singe the ground. The next moment, Hawke was there, shouting at them, the words unclear but the meaning evident: get the fuck out of there!

Hrodwynn didn’t need any more encouragement. She gripped Fenris again from beneath this time, supporting as much of his weight as he’d let her, and began hauling him back to the tunnel. He allowed her touch without comment, the only sign of his discomfort the way he dragged his left leg. Varric met them halfway, firing his crossbow one last time before taking hold of Fenris’ belt to help keep him upright and moving.

They made the relative safety of the tunnel opening before she dared to risk a glance behind them. Merril had fired several bolts of energy that had allowed Hawke to dart back out of range. As she stopped Aveline stepped forward to gain the dragon’s attention while Carver picked up where Fenris had left off.

“Fuck!” Varric breathed, letting go of Fenris’ belt so she could lower him gently to the ground, around a corner from the opening. “The next time you go running off like that, Button, I’ll bend you over my knee and spank you!” He stepped away and fired off a quick succession of bolts outside just to vent off some of his anger. And fright. Seeing her run pell-mell like that into the middle of a fight with a dragon nearly made his heart stop.

“Sorry, Varric, I…” she didn’t really know how to explain what she’d done, much less why. “I didn’t think; I just did what I had to.”

He looked down at her, hovering over Fenris and gently palpitating his leg. The elf’s face was gray, sweating, his lips drawn back in a feral though silent sneer of pain. “Yeah,” Varric said a little kinder, thinking of their conversation earlier about each person doing their part. Seeing how she gave all her attention to her patient’s injuries, he grudgingly gave in, “Yeah, I guess you did.” He turned back and took aim once more at the dragon.

Hrodwynn didn’t spare her insane actions any more thought, her hands full of present problems. She could see Fenris’ leg was broken, and not cleanly if the bulge towards the inside of his thigh was any indication. That his armor hadn’t torn was a testament to its strength. It was also probably saving his life, the tightness of the tough yet flexible leather keeping him from bleeding out through what she knew had to be a compound fracture. A curse hung just behind her lips, without the time or breath to waste on it.

“Varric? I’m gonna need your help.”

He fired off another bolt. “I don’t know anything about healing…”

“Now, Varric,” she commanded as her fingers began undoing Fenris’ belt buckle. He heard the change in tone, and felt apprehension tighten in his chest as he obediently set aside Bianca.

“What do you want me to do?”

She slapped Fenris’ hands out of the way, as he tried to help. “Hold him down.”

Varric gave a disbelieving sort of huff. “You want me to do what now?”

She continued to strip Fenris, pulling off his boots as carefully as possible. “He’s got a broken leg.” She paused finally to look up at him, speaking as if Fenris couldn’t hear them. “It’s a bad break, through the skin, and I’m going to have to set it in a hurry or he'll bleed out. There won’t be any time to give him anything for the pain. It’s gonna be messy, and painful, and I’ve gotta move fast, and he,” she shot an accusatory finger at Fenris without turning her head, “Can’t move in the slightest, no matter how much it hurts.”

“There’s no need,” the elf said, his voice strained. “Do what you must; I’ll keep still.”

Varric looked from one to the other, and had to put his money on the girl. “Fine. But how, exactly? I may outweigh Broody there, but I don’t doubt he’s got the strength to throw me. Easily.”

“Then sit on his chest; I don’t care just keep him still!” she shouted, shoving Fenris' tunic far enough out of the way to reach the fastenings of his armor-like leggings. Once undone, her hands gripped the edges of the fabric at his hips, hesitating, waiting on Varric. “Well?”

He was grumbling to himself, far too quiet for either one to make out the words, but he did move to do as he was told. He straddled Fenris’ chest, positioning his ass directly over his sternum and setting his hands on his shoulders, ignoring the ache of his own wound. “Don’t get excited, elf,” he quipped loud enough to be heard, making light of the fact that his crotch was inches from Fenris’ face. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Not surprising. I always took you for the love-them-and-leave-them type.”

“Ho-ho, Mr. Broody told a joke. You know what, I may buy you some flowers when we get back to Kirkwall, merely as a thank you.”

“I’d prefer chocola… argh!” Fenris’ words deteriorated into an unintelligible groan, his features twisting in excruciating pain. Varric winced, feeling the elf tense beneath him. Any second he expected to be thrown aside, or have him do that thing with his hand and pass it through his torso, cutting him in two. True to his word, however, Fenris kept himself from moving, though Varric did have to contend with the occasional twitch.

Then Hrodwynn cursed, “Bloody shite…”

“What is it?” he asked, alarmed, trying to twist over his shoulder to see her.

Hrodwynn had to pause. No wonder Fenris was so eager to make the bet with Isabela that she couldn’t guess the color of his underpants; it would be hard to guess the color of something that wasn't there. The next moment, she realized Varric was trying to see what had caught her attention. She didn’t want him to see what she had seen, or hadn't seen, or had seen because there hadn't been… “Nothing. It’s… nothing… just… stop moving!”

Varric quit trying to turn around, and she got her mind back in gear. Fenris’ leg was oozing blood freely now that the leggings were no longer keeping pressure on the wound. Quickly she got back to work, trying to cause him the least amount of pain, and doing her best not to look at his fully exposed member. She heard him groan again as she finished stripping him and tossed the leggings out of the way. Then she moved up beside the broken leg, gripped his thigh just above his knee with both hands, and took a deep breath.

Varric watched with heavy eyes, no longer able to feel nothing, as the elf tried not to react to the pain. Fenris threw his arms wide, his gauntlets clawing at the ground, leaving deep furrows in the dirt and stones. His torso moved a little, and Varric had to adjust his position to keep him weighted down. He tried to shut his ears to the sounds coming from behind him, glad that he couldn’t see as he was sure the sight would make him puke. Or faint. Or something just as unmanly—like straddling the elf’s chest and shoving his crotch in his face. He huffed with a little discomfiture. This was one story he wasn’t going to tell; at least, not without a lot of editing!

Hrodwynn breathed through her nose, strong and steady, as she worked. The bone had been set, the wound carefully stitched closed, Fenris’ thigh held straight between two splints as she wrapped bandages around it all. She already had a poultice in place for the wound, and felt grateful she had taken Varric’s suggestion to set certain items out ahead of time. A moment later and she was finished. She leaned back to reach for a blanket and drew it up over his legs to his waist, preserving some of his modesty.

Only then did she finally take a moment to think about what she had seen…

“Hrodwynn? Are you finished back there? You’re awfully quiet.”

“What? Oh, yes, Varric, you can get up now. Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him as he stood; she couldn’t look at Fenris, either. Her neck was bent to almost breaking to try to keep her face from showing, sure that it was burning brightly with embarrassment. She picked up one of the small red vials—the strongest potion she’d brought—her fingers shaking hard enough to threaten to drop it.

“Hey, you did a good job, Button,” Varric said comfortingly, thinking she had been upset over the seriousness of the wound. He wrapped his thick, blunt fingers over hers and steadied her grip. “And he didn’t feel much pain,” he lied. Truthfully Fenris hadn’t even closed his eyes until she finished, but she didn’t need to know that. “Passed out fairly early on.”

She hummed questioningly, looking up at him at last. She saw the compassion in his eyes, the encouraging smile on his lips, and realized why he thought she was upset. She couldn’t correct him, however, not without admitting what she saw. “I… ah… I know… thanks… um… I have to give him this,” she gestured with the vial.

“He’s asleep,” Varric reminded her.

She nodded, but moved to kneel beside Fenris. “I can manage. How’s the fight going? Anyone else hurt?” She shifted Fenris' head from the ground to her lap. The movement woke him, or he’d never been asleep—either way, he opened pale green eyes to focus on her face. He was conscious enough to swallow the small amounts of healing potion she gave him, all the while watching her with that wary, predatory look like he had the night she’d tended the wound on his shoulder.

Varric watched her for a moment, a sad sort of look on his face, before he cleared his throat and looked outside. “Ah, I think Rivaini is hurt, not seriously, but her scarf’s askew, and it looks like she’s having trouble keeping her feet. Can’t see… no, wait, there she is. Aveline’s down. Not moving.” He picked up his crossbow again and started firing.

“Damn,” she muttered. She knew she had to get out there and help them, but she was scared this time. She looked down at Fenris, saw his features relax as the potent potion took effect. She set his head gently on the ground, pulled the blanket a little higher onto his chest, and steeled her resolve.

“Looks like Carver just got hit.”

“The tail again?” she asked, moving up beside Varric, feeling her heart begin to race as she tried to see whom she could get to in time, Aveline or Isabela or Carver.

“Fire,” he answered shortly. He sensed Hrodwynn preparing to dart outside again, and stopped her by grabbing her wrist. “No, wait. It’s almost over. Watch Hawke.”

Varric was right. The dragon was tired, bruised and bleeding from countless wounds, its steps stumbling and off-balance. Hawke, on the other hand, was full of concentrated magic and towering ire. He stalked up to the dragon, placing himself between it and his recently burned brother, and with a bellow of rage he swung his staff, the mace end serving as a counterweight, adding to the power of the arc. From the other end shot out a violent bolt of lightning, so bright that it outshone the sunlight. The bolt connected with the dragon’s chest, piercing the scales and delving through flesh to burst its heart. The beast never had time to scream in pain before it fell, heavy and lifeless at Hawke’s feet.

“…shit…”

“Yeah,” Varric agreed with a shocked sort of laugh, “Remind me not to piss him off.” He let go of her arm and set aside Bianca, “We should go help them inside, don’t you think?”

“What?” she asked, her eyes a little wide as she tore them away from the image of Hawke, shoulders heaving with rage as he stood over his vanquished foe. Seeing Varric’s hazel eyes staring calmly at her, she came back to her senses. “Oh, right. Go get Carver. I’ll help with Aveline.”

She took stock of everyone as she jogged up to Aveline. Carver was struggling to his feet, hissing in pain and gladly accepting Varric’s good shoulder to lean on. Merril and Isabela had their arms around each other, both of them unsteady but keeping their feet for now. Aveline was still, too still, and heavy-looking in all that armor and gear. Hrodwynn knelt beside her shoulder, wondering how she’d get her back to the tunnel, when Hawke finally broke out of his cold rage and approached them. He knelt on her other side, looking across her chest to Hrodwynn and said gently, “Carry my staff. I’ll carry her.”

She didn’t argue, didn’t even have the chance as he scooped the woman up in his arms, armor and all, and lifted her like she didn’t weigh any more than a child. Hrodwynn sat there for a moment longer, stunned. Every time she thought she had the git figured out, he’d do something unexpectedly nice or noble. She shook her head and picked up his staff and Aveline's sword, before heading over to Merril and Isabela to steer them in the right direction.

Once everyone was inside the tunnel, she set to work, quietly taking control of the situation. Merril wasn’t hurt, but she was shaky, her eyes glassy and her face pale. Hrodwynn quickly determined she wasn’t a priority and said, “Merril, sit down over there, would you? That’s it. Just breathe; I’ll be with you soon. Isabela? Let me take a quick look.” She turned to see the former pirate, swaying like she was still standing on the deck of a ship. She lifted the edge of the scarf out of the way to see a long cut just above her temple and below the hairline. It wasn’t too deep, but it was bleeding freely as head wounds tended to do. Yet the injury was an easy fix, and one she could do on her own. “Nothing’s broken, and the cut’s shallow. Take one of the green bottles; you’ll be fine.”

She moved her attention onto the next, “Carver?” She knelt down at his right side, getting a good look at his injury. His skin was blackened from his fingertips to where his arm entered his vest, perhaps a little more. The vest was damaged, the heat of the fire burning away the edge of the fabric and stitching. Some of his hair was singed and a good part of his neck was red and beginning to blister, but she was confident he would heal.

“Bad, huh?” he panted where he sat, propped against the cavern wall, leaning on his good arm. Even if he couldn’t turn his head to look, he could feel where the burn marred his flesh. And the stench made him want to retch. He coughed, then had to catch his breath as she examined his arm.

“Not as bad as you think,” she lied, her tone calm and soothing. She pressed a red bottle into Varric’s hands, who was sitting next to him. “Have him start on this. Slowly. I’ll be right back after I take a look at Aveline.”

He nodded, unstopping the bottle and holding it to Carver’s lips.

Confident she had the others tended to, at least for now, she turned her complete attention on Aveline. The woman was still unconscious, her lips parted with shallow breaths. “How is she?” pressed Hawke, standing stiffly over them.

“Can’t tell yet,” she hummed, her fingers massaging through Aveline’s thick ginger mane as she felt around a large bump, “It looks like a concussion, with the swelling and all. Her skull isn’t caved in or anything, but it might be cracked. I’ll give her something for it, and she should be awake by morning. With a headache worse than any hangover, but… oh, bloody Void…” her voice trailed away as she looked up at Isabela taking a long pull from a small red vial. “Hawke! Catch her!”

Lightning fast reflexes fired off, his body full of adrenaline after the fight or he might not have reached her in time. Isabela giggled, called out a, “Whoopsies!” as she lost her balance and teetered. She fell right into Hawke’s arms, the giggle turning into a laugh as she stared up into his golden amber orbs. “My, my, Hawke, but you are a handsome man, aren’t you.”

Hrodwynn was dripping a potent potion from another small red vial into Aveline’s mouth, gently stroking her neck, encouraging her to swallow despite being out cold. Even focused on her current patient, however, she managed to divide her attention evenly between the two women. “Isabela, are you color-blind? I said a green bottle, not red, especially not the smaller red bottles. You don’t need anything that strong.”

“Oh, but I do, little Button,” she sighed, holding onto Hawke’s arms, her fingers stroking his muscles. “Can’t have this pretty face of mine scarred, or I’d lose my best asset.” She pouted up at him, “That would be a shame, don’t you agree?”

“Ah…” For once, he seemed stumped for a snarky reply.

“Maker!” Carver had to turn his face to hide his laughter, his pain lessening thanks to his own bottle.

“This is going to get very uncomfortable, very quickly,” Varric predicted eagerly.

She tried hard, keeping her eyes glued to Aveline’s throat and her concentration on not drowning the city guard with the healing potion. Yet Hrodwynn found it painfully impossible to block out the sound of Isabela’s deep and sultry voice as it floated through the cavern. “You know, Hawke, a girl could form an attachment for you.”

“Unfortunately, girls don’t interest me. Not in the way you’re meaning.”

“But I already have an attachment for you.”

“Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?”

“It’s back in my room, at the Hanged Man.”

“Yup, we are.”

“I’d like to show it to you, sometime. Think you’d be interested?”

“Ah, well, it’s possible. I’ll admit to some curiosity.”

“It’s a date, then. You, me, and Fabio.”

“Fabio?”

A strangled sound came from Varric; either he was stifling a chuckle, or choking a cat in heat.

Isabela had to strain her neck to throw a disapproving look at him. “Hush, Varric. You have Bianca.” She leaned back into Hawke’s arms once more, sighing dreamily, “Leave me my Fabio.”

“Maker, please, any moment now,” Hrodwynn prayed, standing and dusting off her backside. She had gotten all she could into Aveline and turned back to Carver. “Hawke, set Isabela down gently. She’ll pass out soon enough, and I need your help over here.”

“Yes! I mean,” he coughed, embarrassed over his eagerness, “Of course. Excuse me, Isabela.”

“Until we’re back in Kirkwall, my handsome Hawke,” she vowed, her hand caressing his cheek before he could pull away.

“I’ll, ah,” Varric struggled to get the words out coherently, “I’ll go stand watch. I need the fresh air, anyway.” He strode off with Bianca in his hands, chortling merrily.

Hawke left Isabela sitting and mumbling a rather suggestive drinking song, and hastened over to Carver’s side. “What can I do?”

“Help me get this off of him,” she said, already working on the buckles of his vest. “The potion will do most of the work, but it’ll go faster and leave less scarring if I can put some salve on the burns. To do that…”

“…You need access to all the skin.”

“All my skin?” Carver asked, beginning to feel the effects of the potion. Though he’d taken a weaker one than Isabela, it was strong enough to numb the pain and relax his self-control. “That’s… I don’t mind, but… well, with my brother here…”

“Just your arm and shoulder,” Hrodwynn assured him, feeling her cheeks burn at what he had been thinking. Damn those potions. She was going to have a stern talk with Anders when she got back, maybe devise a recipe that wasn’t so… un-inhibiting. “But we’ve gotta get this vest off so I can put some salve on your wounds.”

“Oh, ah, right, my shoulder,” he nodded, and then looked to Hawke with a pleading expression on his face. “What about my chest?”

“Blast it, Carver!” he rolled his eyes for what seemed the tenth time that day. “You’re concerned about that now? To think, last year you were finding every opportunity to show it off.”

“Show what off?” Isabela wobbled curiously. “His first chest hair? Oh!”

Hrodwynn had to agree with her. “Oh!” If Carver had any chest hair, it was artfully concealed within a tattoo of a Mabari war hound. The tattoo was as massive as the animal it represented, covering the width of his chest from his collarbone to the waistband of his leggings. She had to pause and admire the artistry, the hound seeming to breath as he did, the eyes following her every movement.

“Ooh,” crooned Isabela, squinting her eyes to bring it into focus, “Carver, can you make it…”

“Isabela,” Hawke moaned, shooting her a warning look that she was too inebriated to notice, “Don’t, just… don’t.”

“I can make it bark,” he said with such a timidly hopeful look on his face that Hrodwynn almost—almost—broke out laughing.

“That’s alright, Carver,” she gestured for Hawke to hand her one of the jars of salve, “Another time. Let’s get you healed first.”

“Oh, right, forgot about that, what with the dragon and the fight and the potions and… all…” He smiled boyishly at her, “But you would like to see it bark, someday, maybe when we get back to Kirkwall?”

Isabela tittered, sounding too much like Merril. Merril, contrarily, was as silent as a lamb. Hawke groaned something under his breath, but Hrodwynn smiled at him placatingly. “Sure, Carver, when we get back to Kirkwall. Now hold still; this might sting a little.” She dug her fingers into the jar, picking up a good amount of the goopy salve, and began dabbing it onto his burns.

He didn’t flinch, instead closing his eyes and sighing, the Mabari looking like it was taking a deep breath.

“You’ve, ah,” Hawke stopped talking as suddenly as he started. She glanced up from her work to see him swallow thickly, his face pale and sweaty. He looked about to sick up. “You’ve got this in hand, haven’t you? I’ll step outside, then, make sure we didn’t leave gear or anything out by the dragon.”

Hrodwynn let him go without comment, but she did watch him until he slipped through the opening and was out of sight. Then she returned her attention to her patients and finished tending them.

It was almost an hour later, after it had turned full night, before Hrodwynn got the chance to get some fresh air herself. She stepped outside, thankful for the gentle breeze blowing against the skin of her cheek, a welcome relief from the stuffy cavern air. When she opened her eyes, she saw Hawke standing at the far side of the pit, facing the corpse of the dragon. Varric was walking towards her, and after pausing a moment to exchange a few words, he nodded and continued his patrol. She looked back at Hawke, squared her shoulders, and set her steps towards him.

He didn’t seem to notice her approach, so she spoke softly, intruding as gently as possible into his thoughts. “It looks smaller now.”

He didn’t make a sound, but he did turn his head slightly, cocking his ear towards her. She took it as in indication that it would be alright to keep talking.

“When I first saw this thing, it looked so big, I thought I’d be able to walk right into its nostril and not have to duck my head.” She gave a little laugh. “But I’m taller than its head.”

“Not by much.”

She nodded, “Not by much.”

“How is Merril?”

“She’s fine,” Hrodwynn stepped a little closer, encouraged by his question. “A little bruised, but that stone armor spell of hers kept her from getting too hurt. She was jittery is all. The dragon here scared her more than she wanted to admit, but she kept it together until after the fight. Then she let herself have a nice little breakdown. We talked for a bit before I gave her something to help her sleep; she’ll be back to her old self by morning.”

“And… Isabela?”

“Asleep. Finally,” she added with a dramatic inflection. “Maker, but that woman has stamina.” Hawke gave an agreeable sounding snort at that. “She drank enough of that potion to lay low three men. Too bad she won’t have the hangover to match, to teach her a lesson.”

“She’s been taught that lesson several times before. If she hasn’t learned it by now, she never will. What about…” he paused to scratch at the side of his nose, “What about Aveline?”

“No change, yet, other than the swelling’s started to go down. I expect she’ll sleep through the night.” She gave another little laugh, “And when she wakes up, I bet she’ll be grouchy she missed the end of the fight.”

“So will Fenris,” he agreed. “How is he?”

Hrodwynn took a deep breath, remembering the fear she felt when she saw him thrown by the dragon’s tail. “Other than a few bruises, his leg was the worst of it. It was a bad break, but I think I got it set properly. Give it tonight and tomorrow to heal, and he should be able to walk on it the next day.”

“We can’t stay here that long.”

“Then we’ll have to carry him,” she argued, “But he needs to keep his weight off that leg until the bone can heal properly, or he’ll develop a limp.”

Hawke scoffed at that, thinking she was exaggerating. “What about Varric?”

“Stubborn,” she crossed her arms, shooting daggers at Hawke with her eyes, but he wouldn’t look at her to see them. “He refuses to take a potion, saying that someone needs to keep their wits about them until everyone’s on their feet again. But you already know how he’s doing.”

Hawke didn’t comment, simply nodding before turning back to the dragon, seemingly dismissing her.

“You know, there’s still one more person you haven’t asked about,” she prodded him.

Finally she got a reaction out of him, and immediately regretted it. Hawke lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the emotions swelling within him. “I… I couldn’t…” he whispered, as if ashamed of the words. With a little trepidation, she closed the distance between them, setting her hand on his shoulder. He was trembling.

“I… I saw it happening,” he lifted his face up, tears slipping from his eyes as he opened them, seeing again the horrifying events of the afternoon. “The dragon… breathing fire… Carver… and I was too far away… I couldn’t… I couldn’t protect him… it was like when Bethany… all over again… I was too far to reach him in time…”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” she said, trying to calm him, “Other than get yourself roasted in his place.”

“Then I should've done that!” He finally faced her, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his beard was damp from earlier tears. “He’s my little brother. My responsibility! All his life, I’ve… I’ve…” his mouth moved a few times, the sounds trapped within his throat. He took a deep shuddering breath before he could continue. “I’ve watched over him his whole life, kept him out of trouble, kept him from getting hurt. I’ve been the best big brother I could. And he’s been an insufferable, ungrateful, spoiled little brat about it! But, Maker help me, I do love him. Even when he’s being a git! When I saw him fall, when it looked like he had died, I didn’t think, ‘What am I going to tell Mother?’ I thought, ‘What am I going to do without my baby brother?’”

Hrodwynn fought to hold back the tears of sympathy, not wanting Hawke to think she pitied him. But she did want him to know she cared. She put her hands on his shoulders, “He’ll be fine, Hawke. The burn’s healing and…”

“I’ve already lost my kid sister,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “I can’t lose my baby brother, too.”

“You won’t,” she told him, squeezing his shoulders to gain his attention. When his eyes seemed to focus on her, she continued, “You won’t lose Carver. He’s fine. Sleeping peacefully. Doesn’t even feel any pain. And by morning, his arm will look no worse than a bad sunburn. I promise you, Hawke, he’ll be fine.”

He stared at her a few moments, her words slowly penetrating his fears and reaching his brain. At last he nodded, sniffing and wiping off a tear. “Damn. Sorry, I… I don’t usually blubber like that.”

She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug. “It’s alright, I won’t blackmail you with it or anything. I promise.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.” He did return the embrace, however.

Hrodwynn pulled her head back a little to look at his face. She had noticed his flinch when she first touched his back, and felt the rips in his coat and the stickiness on his skin. Seeing his expression confirmed her suspicions. “Hawke, are you hurt?”

He groaned, turning his face away and letting her go. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” she pushed, “From the dragon? Hawke, why didn’t you say anything before? I’ve got to take a look at it.” She tried to turn him around to where she could see, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Ah, no, really,” he leaned away from her, his hands raised, fingers spread wide as if to make a shield to ward her off, “It’s fine, I’m nothing. I mean, it’s nothing, I’m fine. Just a scratch.”

“A scratch that could get infected. All that dirt and gore and shit under its nails, and those nails broke your skin and drew blood. By now those scratches are probably tender and inflamed.”

“It wasn’t… it didn’t… shit, you’re not going to back down, are you?” Seeing how she stood there, her arms crossed, her chin lifted stubbornly, he gave in. “Fine. But, let’s go inside, away from Varric.”

“That’s where my kit is, anyway,” she agreed, following him inside to where the others slept.

Hawke was oddly quiet as she bossed him around, positioning him to where she could clearly see in the lantern light and making him take off his coat. He refused to sit down, however, and when he took off his tunic and she got a good look at his back, she began to understand why. The scratch ran down his lower back to below the waist of his leggings. The fabric was sticky with half-dried blood, the mess completely covering one cheek.

“It’s more than a scratch, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t answer.

“Maker, Hawke, but you are impossible. Come on, drop your trousers and lie down on your front. You can keep your knickers on.”

He laughed a little, due more to his embarrassment than anything humorous. “Strangely enough, I’ve heard that before, but usually with a bit more dirty talk beforehand.”

“Shit,” she breathed at his bluntness, “Strangely enough, I believe you.” She walked away and busied herself at her pack, taking out what she thought she might need, letting him take care of matters. When it sounded like he was done moving around, she turned back, the sight nearly making her drop what she was holding. “How in the Fade did that happen?”

If he was blushing, his beard hid most of the evidence. For extra insurance, he turned his face to the wall as he answered, “When Fenris was struck down, and you came out to get him to safety, I… ah… well, the dragon was about to kill you. I hit it with a spell, taking its attention off of the two of you.”

She moved the hem of his underpants towards his crack, giving her a better view of the wounds. “I remember,” she said, not wanting to think too long about that episode of momentary insanity. She gently dabbed the washrag around the puncture wounds on the underside curve of his buttocks.

“Yes, well, as you were getting away, the dragon started after me. Tagged me with its teeth before Aveline could regain its attention.” He felt her pause, and sensed she had moved her hand away so he wouldn’t feel her shaking. “Oh, damn it, girl, go ahead and laugh. A dragon wanted a piece of ass—my ass. Ha-ha.”

She didn’t make a sound. Her hand returned to her ministrations, as steady and gentle as before. He thought for a moment he had misjudged her and actually felt a twinge of guilt over it, prompting him to turn his head towards her. The apology died behind his lips, however, once he got a look at the poorly suppressed smirk on her face.

She caught his eye and had the decency to blush. “S…s…s…sorry!” She took a shaky breath before she was under control enough to speak without giggling, “I know I shouldn’t laugh at your expense.”

He gave in to his own chuckle, “Damn it, girl, you’re as insufferable as Carver. But cuter!”

She winked at him. “I guess I like you, too, despite yourself. You want a potion for that?” She leaned away to stand up and return to her pack.

He sighed, pushing up to his knees to pull his leggings back up. “And leave you and Varric unchaperoned all night? Not on your life, my dear. I did promise to return you to Anders without a scratch on your head.”

“Fine, but you’ll be stiff and limping by morning.”

“Again, something I’ve heard before.”

“Maker!” she swore, tossing the soiled rag on the ground near her pack. “I need some air.”

Hawke’s laughter followed her outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this chapter got long. Sorry, my dears. (And to think, I even left out the battle with the dragon, however much I love a good fight scene. Sigh, the sacrifices I make…) Well, I hope you didn’t find it too long. Usually I’m the only one who complains about the length ;D *ahem*  
> Anywhoozies, I wanted to focus more on character development this chapter, especially the relationship between Hawke and Carver. And I simply had to add Hawke getting bitten in the ass by a dragon—such a visual!


	9. One Wrong Turn…

On one level, Fenris was aware of everything around them as they approached the gates of Kirkwall. His gaze scanned the countryside for danger. He answered negatively to every color Isabela guessed. He noted the way Carver shyly held Hrodwynn’s hand, and the soft giggle that accompanied her blushing cheeks.

Most of his attention, however, was focused inwardly on his private struggle. No doubt the others thought he was brooding, reviewing the battle with the dragon, finding his mistakes and working on strategies to keep himself from making the same mistakes again. He let them assume, as the truth was far too personal to admit to anyone—almost too shocking to admit to himself. The one scene from the battle that kept playing over and over within his thoughts, was not how he let the dragon strike him from his blindside…

…but how he had almost kissed Hrodwynn.

She had raced out to help him, had seen the dragon about to roast them with its fiery breath, and had tried to shield him with her body. He had also seen what was about to happen, and he had turned the tables on her, had ignored the white-hot poker of pain in his leg to roll her beneath him, and had become her shield, their faces so close together they could taste the other’s breath. He knew, if Hawke hadn’t stepped in and knocked the dragon’s fire off course, he would have kissed Hrodwynn, he would have died with his lips pressed to hers…

“Elf, if I get you a first place ribbon, would you stop brooding?”

Fenris turned to look at Varric, his expression unchanging, and lied, “I’m not brooding at this moment.”

“Bullshit,” Varric challenged. “I bet you haven’t heard the last dozen or so colors Isabela’s guessed.”

Carver kept hold of Hrodwynn’s hand, asking, “You don’t have anything pressing to do later, do you? I mean, we could meet at the Hanged Man, for drinks or something.”

Fenris tried not to listen to Carver’s clumsy attempt to ask Hrodwynn out on a date. Instead he tried to take a small amount of pleasure in reciting, “Robin’s egg, cobalt, azure, indigo, teal, cerulean, lapis lazuli, sapphire, bluebonnet, ceil, cornflower, periwinkle…”

“Alright, alright,” Varric held up his hands, “I give up. You are a remarkable elf; you can brood and pay attention. Bully for you.”

“I’d, ah, love to,” Hrodwynn smiled timidly. She had been thinking of getting home and flopping onto her bed and sleeping for a solid day, but all thoughts of home and rest sped from her mind in the face of Carver’s offer.

“Is it even in the vicinity of blue?” Isabela asked, eyeing the gates as they passed through into the city.

“Haven’t the two of you spent enough time together?” Hawke groused at his younger brother, knowing full well his disapproval would only encourage Carver—and Carver’s pursuit of Hrodwynn would ingratiate Fenris to him.

“No,” Fenris answered Isabela truthfully, trying to ignore whatever sort of pathetic protest Carver was making. As much as he hated seeing her with another man, he knew it would be best for Hrodwynn. “And your time’s up; we’re back in Kirkwall.”

“It’s been trying enough,” Hawke continued, “Watching the two of you blush and giggle. Couldn’t you take an afternoon off? Let the poor girl catch her breath?”

“Damn,” Isabela muttered. The small troupe reached a market square, where several major streets intersected. No doubt they were all going to go their separate ways, but she wasn’t about to give up so easily. “Still, how do I know you’re not lying.”

Hrodwynn shook her head, as Carver and Hawke began a small row. She turned away, not wanting Hawke to see the expression on her face. They had just started to get along, after all, and for Carver’s sake she didn’t want to make things worse between them. But she couldn’t really understand why he was so upset over her and Carver wanting to spend time together. And Hawke had to see how, the more he tried to discourage his brother, the more Carver insisted he wanted to be with her. The thought hit her that Hawke knew exactly how Carver would react, but that would mean he was actually encouraging Carver to pursue her.

“Lying?!” Fenris protested, mildly emotional for once.

“Bluffing, if you prefer,” Isabela amended placatingly. “I want some sort of proof, before I pay up. An unbiased judge or… or… or show me your underpants!”

Hrodwynn barely heard the others, her eyes growing wide as she tried to take in every detail. Not half a block down the street, a party of a half-dozen or so thugs came into view. They were men and women she recognized. And worse, it looked like they might have seen her. Her heart raced as she brought a hand up to hide her face, appearing to be scratching at her hair while peeking around her palm. The group was walking slowly, looking like they were strolling down the street, not heading towards her and the others, but perhaps to a shop or a stall a few yards away. Maybe they hadn’t spotted her yet, but something in the way they walked, the swords and daggers belted at their waists, the leader intentionally not looking at her and the others…

“Where would the sport be in that?” Fenris evaded. “Besides, I’m not dropping my leggings in the middle of Hightown just to win a bet. Aveline would have to arrest me.”

“And I’m not giving up without some assurance… Hrodwynn!”

The girl jumped, almost squeaking guiltily as she spun around to face them.

“Hrodwynn,” Isabela continued as if she hadn’t noticed her reaction, more focused on settling her bet with Fenris. “Hrodwynn, you set Fenris’ leg after the fight. You must’ve taken his leggings off to do so, right?”

Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and she was sure her eyes were wide as saucers, but she forced herself to nod in answer.

“You’ve seen his underpants, haven’t you?” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, and Isabela swept on without waiting for an answer. “And I’m sure you’ve heard most if not all of the colors I’ve guessed. So you be the judge: have I or have I not guessed the color of his underpants?”

Normally, her face should have been glowing red like fresh lava. With her mind on the thugs coming up the street, however, she was able to keep herself from blushing about what she had seen beneath Fenris’ leggings. Still, she didn’t trust herself to look at him, just in case, and steadily kept Isabela’s gaze as she answered truthfully, “You haven’t.”

Isabela’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she knew the girl wasn’t lying. “I don’t get it. I must’ve named every color imaginable. Unless…” her voice trailed away as she tilted her head, “Is it a pattern of some sort? Like polkadots or plaid?”

“No,” Fenris shook his head, and Hrodwynn agreed when Isabela turned back to her.

“Damn!” she cursed softly.

“I’ve got to go, Hawke,” Aveline broke in. “I’ve been out of the city for severals days; I should check in and make sure the place hasn’t fallen apart during my absence.”

“Of course, my dear Aveline,” he broke off his fight with Carver to bow over her hand. “Drinks later, at the Hanged Man?”

“No more guesses,” Fenris stated plainly. “You’ve lost the bet.”

“Are you sure?” Isabela pressed Hrodwynn, her ample bosom looming intimidatingly over her. “He didn’t promise you a percentage of his winnings, if you lied for him, did he?”

“What winnings?” Hrodwynn refused the nervous urge to lick her lips. Dammit, she wanted to peek over her shoulder and see where those thugs were, but she couldn’t do so without alerting the others. “The bet was double or nothing—if you won, he’d have owed you six silvers, double his previous debt. As it stands, his debt to you is wiped off the board, but he didn’t win anything, either.”

“I’ll make it if I can, Hawke,” Aveline vaguely promised. Promptly she turned on her heel and stalked off.

“She’s been touchy ever since the fight with the dragon,” Merril commented, watching her walk away.

“She’s always a bit grouchy when she misses a fight,” Varric agreed. He wasn’t so concerned with Aveline, or with Hawke and Carver, even with Fenris and Isabela, as he was with Hrodwynn. He alone had noticed her odd behavior, and began casting about for the source of the girl’s discomfort.

Isabela tapped the stud on her chin again, thinking carefully. “Hmm, I suppose you’re right,” she purred, her voice growing dangerous. With a wicked little smirk, she turned back to Fenris. “Alright, you win. But I’d like a rematch someday.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris allowed, relieved that Hrodwynn had played along. She must have… He also very carefully avoided looking at her, not wanting to know—to see confirmation on her face that she had seen… everything… Not that he felt embarrassment over having been exposed; being stripped so his leg could be set was chaste compared to some of the things he had done, and had been done to him, in his past. It was only that it wasn’t, well, proper for someone as young and innocent as she was to see such a thing. “Until next time, Isabela,” he gave Isabela a short though proper bow, which only made her smile deepen.

“I should go, too, I suppose,” chirped Merril.

“I’ll go with you,” Isabela said, taking her arm. “Or rather, you’ll come with me. I need a new scarf, and there’s a stall down the next street that sells the most stunning fabrics. I need a woman’s opinion to help pick out something that will set off the color of my eyes.”

“Oh, of course, I’d love to go shopping with you.”

“Coming, Hrodwynn?” Isabela called over her shoulder.

No one had any doubt why Isabela wanted Hrodwynn to shop with her, but as the two were walking towards the Coterie thugs, Hrodwynn had even more reason than the color of Fenris’ nonexistent small clothes to turn down her offer. “Ah, no, thanks, but I, ah, have a date with Carver. Sorry.”

Isabela pouted beautifully, a bit wasted in the present company, but let the matter drop. She was sure there’d be another time she could corner the girl and get the truth from her. “Fine. Just me and Merril, then. Come on, the stall’s this way. And I heard they’ve received a shipment of some lovely Orlesian silks earlier this week. Vibrant colors and intricate patterns…” her voice trailed away to be lost within the sounds of the other pedestrians on the street.

“I should be going,” Fenris felt the need for a little solitude, the need for meditation to get his head straightened out. Through no fault of her own, Hrodwynn was becoming a source of discomfort and disruption in his life. He needed some space and time to study his reactions and regain his focus. And give her time to becoming thoroughly enamored with Carver.

“Do you have to?” Hawke pouted, taking half a step towards him. “I mean, I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you. Perhaps over drinks, at the Hanged Man?”

“Why do we always end up back there?” Carver asked.

“It’s the cleanest tavern in town,” quipped Varric.

“That doesn’t say much about the other taverns, does it?” grumbled Fenris. “Perhaps tomorrow, Hawke. I have something else to see to, first.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Hawke let him off the hook. He knew Fenris could see for himself how well Carver and Hrodwynn were hitting it off; he’d get his little favor out of the mysterious elf yet.

Hrodwynn suddenly noticed she was the only woman in their dwindling group. Not wanting to be the last one standing there, she made her own excuses. “I’ll, ah, see you later,” she mumbled, barely daring to glance over her shoulder. The thugs were no longer approaching them, but they weren't far enough away for comfort.

“Wait, Hrodwynn!” Carver called after her as she tried to slip away. She didn’t turn around, as that would mean the thugs could see her face, but she did allow him to catch up with her. “What's the rush? I thought we had a date.”

Fenris stopped, turning back to watch the unusual and unexpected exchange. Hawke was also interested in the two, wondering if he had pushed too hard and seeing his chances with Fenris go up in smoke. Varric was the only one not paying them attention, watching the street more than the young couple.

“I, ah, I’m not feeling well,” she lied, prying Carver’s fingers from her arm. “Look, just, I’ll meet you at the Hanged Man later, alright? Tonight. Promise. Just… I gotta go…” She pulled away the last finger and let go, letting his hand drop to his side.

“What the…?” Carver stared after her retreating form, her dark red hair bobbing and weaving around the other pedestrians as she slipped away. Hawke and Fenris also stared after her as if they could see the cause of it etched like a symbol onto her cloak.

Varric heaved a heavy breath, eying the group of six or seven armed men and women who happened to duck into the same alley as Hrodwynn. “Shit,” he breathed, looking up at the others. “Hawke, I think we’ve got trouble. Rather, Hrodwynn’s got trouble.”

“What do you mean?” he managed to ask before Carver could voice his own question.

“That alley she just entered,” Varric nodded, already starting to walk in that direction. “There was a group that went in after her. Looked like members of the Coterie. Now, that might be a coincidence, but…”

“But given Hrodwynn’s propensity for trouble,” Hawke finished for him, “I doubt it, too. Damn!”

“Why would they be after her?” Carver’s voice was tight as he fell into step beside Hawke and Varric. “She just did one job for them. It’s not like she messed it up or anything, did she?”

Fenris thought about what she had confessed to him the other night, under the influence of the healing potion, how things hadn’t turned out exactly as planned, how she had selfishly taken those few extra moments that messed things up. He didn’t voice his opinion, thinking if she wanted them to know, she would have mentioned it without the aid of an intoxicating elixir. As they entered Darktown, he ranged ahead of the other three, knowing he could track her and the thugs better than the others.

“I don’t know, Carver,” Hawke’s voice was genuinely concerned. “But come to think of it, she has been acting strangely since we got back to Kirkwall.” He looked around the crowded and shadowy streets, but could see no sign of the girl or the thugs. Fenris, however, acted like he was hot on their trail, and putting his faith in the elf, he began to follow that stark white head of hair.

“I’ve been watching those Coterie thugs,” Varric added, straining to keep up with Hawke, “Ever since I spotted them. Back in Hightown, they looked like they were interested in a particular stall, but one of them kept glancing over every time Hrodwynn’s name was mentioned. As soon as she left, they followed her. In my book, that’s never a good thing.”

“But why?” Carver almost whined.

“I don’t know,” Hawke wanted to be cross with him, but allowed him the luxury of venting his confusion. Hawke had to keep his own confusion in check, or it would overpower his focus. And if they wanted to rescue Hrodwynn from whatever trouble she had gotten into, he needed to keep his focus. “We’ll ask her when we catch up to her and make sure she’s alright.”

The three fell silent after that, each with their own worries, each with their own problems. Hawke was going over basic plans and strategies, trying to guess what had happened and anticipate what they would find. Carver’s right hand was worrying at his belt, gripping the buckle in an effort to keep himself from whipping out his greatsword and charging to her rescue. Varric had given up entirely on keeping an eye out for Hrodwynn or the thugs, his stature making it difficult to see through the crowded streets. Instead he focused on staying within an arm’s length Hawke and Carver, trusting them to keep sight of Fenris, and trusting him to track Hrodwynn.

The streets of Darktown were filled with bodies meandering like zombies, their faces blank and void of thought or emotion, their pace sporadic and oftentimes chaotic, their bodies and clothing stained and reeking. Varric hated this part of Kirkwall, avoided it at all costs, but Hrodwynn was in danger. For her…

For her, he’d move the Fade and the Void. That little girl had been through enough in her short life. Well, perhaps she wasn’t quite so little, being taller than him. Nor was she so young as she sometimes appeared, being in the middle of that transitional stage, no longer a child yet on the cusp of womanhood. But not having a past, not knowing of your family or friends, and no sign that anyone had been looking for her all these years, was too much for anyone to bear on their own. Someone had to be her family. Someone had to care.

She had too much spunk to end up like the others down here, bled dry of any life or color.

Fenris was unaware of the others’ internal turmoils, struggling to suppress his own so he wouldn’t lose sight of Hrodwynn’s pursuers. She had a long lead on them all, only an occasional flash of red hair letting him know she was still moving, still trying to get away. The thugs, however, were persistent, knowing the ebb and flow of the currents almost as well as she knew them. They had ranged out, one or two slipping off down a side street, presumably to head her off. Fenris cursed under his breath, knowing there was no way to warn her of the danger in time. All he could do was track, track and follow and hope that Hawke would know what to do when they reached the end of their journey.

All too soon he had to stop, leaning against the outside of an abandoned warehouse as he waited for the others to catch up. His sharp ears could hear sounds of talking coming from behind the door, one voice sounding a lot like Hrodwynn’s, or so he told himself. No one sounded too excited or alarmed, yet…

“What is it?” Carver asked as they came up to him, “Where’s Hrodwynn? Are they inside? Let’s get in there…”

“And do what?” Hawke countered, gripping his brother’s shoulder before he could reach the door. “We don’t know what’s going on. She might be meeting with them on purpose, for all we know.”

“But she was nervous when she spotted them.”

“Maybe because she didn’t want us to notice them,” Hawke spoke calmly, trying to ease his brother’s fears, “Or for them to notice us. Let’s find out what’s going on first, then if she needs it, we’ll rescue her. Fenris,” he looked at the elf, still listening intently to what only his sharp ears could hear, “Can you slip inside, unnoticed, find out what’s going on?”

He didn’t smile, nor did he speak, but he did give a terse nod as he passed his hand into the latch of the door. Varric whistled between his teeth as Fenris undid the lock and pulled his hand back out before opening the door and disappearing within. When the brothers looked at Varric, he shrugged and said, “What? Call it professional admiration. An ability like that would be very useful in my line of work.”

“What is your line of work, exactly?” Carver asked.

“If I told you,” Varric’s voice grew dark and dangerous, “I’d have to kill you.”

Carver swallowed, half believing him.

Hrodwynn was having similar feelings, though finding it a bit more difficult to swallow. “Jaxon,” she choked through the noose around her neck. It wasn’t so tight as to cut off her air supply, but it was tight enough her fingers were having a hard time trying to loosen it. It didn’t help that one of the thugs had thrown the other end of the rope up over a low rafter, and was threatening to pull it and lift her off her feet. As things were, she had to stand on her tiptoes to keep herself breathing. “Jaxon, you don’t want to do this. Brekker likes me, remember? He’ll have your balls…”

“Brekker will thank me,” the thug in question, the leader of the little group, stared down at her reddening face. “He’s pissed-off at you, you know. Not only did you screw up the job, but you skipped town. Shouldn’t have done that, makes you look bad, running out on the boss.”

“I didn’t…” her words cut off as the man behind her tugged on the rope.

“You didn’t what?” Jaxon taunted her, knowing it was too hard for her to speak. “You didn’t muck things up? Or you didn’t skip town?”

The man holding the rope eased off a little, and she managed a choked answer. “I didn’t screw up. The whole point was to break into the safe, to make it appear that the location was not secure. The safe was broken into. Nothing stolen, but…”

“But Gallad was supposed to catch you in the act. Only you didn’t show when you were supposed to, and someone else almost caught you.”

“I got away!” she coughed. “Everything worked out!” The rope pulled tight again, the rough fibers rubbing her skin raw. She had managed to get a few of the fingers of her right hand between it and her skin, her left hand still clawing at the stiff hemp. She needed to hang on, to keep her wits about her. Jaxon was bluffing, he had to be bluffing. She only had to keep breathing, let him scare her or intimidate her or whatever he had planned, then he’d let her go. Desperately she tried not to think about his reputation, how he often went too far…

“Not according to plan,” Jaxon shook his head at her. “You were only supposed to break into the safe, remember? That’s it. Break in. Leave the contents untouched. But you rifled the papers. Took them three days to determine that nothing was stolen. Three days before they moved the merchandise to the other location. Three days that weren’t in the plan. Three days that meant the boss missed his opportunity.”

“I didn’t know…” She didn’t so much as speak as she mouthed the words. It was almost too hard to breathe, and she tried twisting her neck around to where her fingers fought to keep a little space open.

“Brekker went out on a limb, letting a little punk like you work on a job this size. And you blew it!” Jaxon stopped ranting, seeing what she was doing. Quickly he grabbed her wrist and pulled her fingers free, letting the rope tighten around her neck. He saw her face twist up in pain, the red color darkening, and smiled with sadistic satisfaction. “You’re no longer his favorite little pet. Next time, you won’t be his first choice. Next time, I’ll be the one breaking into the Siggerdson.”

“That’s what this was all about?” she barely managed to wheeze. “You’re jealous? Of me?” She tried to laugh, making a macabre scene, her lips stretched wide in a cross between a grimace and a grin, looking like a skull, a red corpse with dark red hair and bulging eyes. “I didn’t know you liked men. I don't think Brekker does, but go ahead and try. I won’t stand in your way…”

Jaxon struck her. The force easily split her lip, her face already swollen and flushed with blood. Her toes lost their purchase, making her swing and twist on the end of the rope before the man holding it let her regain her footing. Jaxon, however, had had enough. He still held her right hand, and signaled one of the others to take hold of it. “You think you’re so fucking smart,” he growled, pulling a pair of clippers from a pouch at his waist, “Laughing at us, while you play and act all coy and innocent, like a pretty young girl, twisting everyone around your little finger. Try that now. Try that, after I take a few of these childlike fingers.”

Her vision was darkening at the corners, letting her know she didn’t have much time left. “…don’t…” she gasped, unable to pull away, unable to look away, as Jaxon brought the clippers to her hand. “…Brekker… won’t…”

“Who do you think sent us to look for you?” Jaxon opened the clippers, taking perverse delight in sliding the cold metal around the base of her first finger. He squeezed, gently, just enough to break skin, just enough to draw blood. He felt her body jerk, her other hand pelt harmlessly at his shoulder before going back to trying to loosen the noose. He turned to look at her, smiling his enjoyment, his satisfaction. “Tell me, Hrodwynn, how hard will it be to break into a safe, without this finger?”

She opened her mouth, but could no longer find the air to make a sound. He was bluffing. Maker! He had to be bluffing. Even if he was telling the truth, even if she had screwed up the timetable, Brekker wouldn’t want her dead much less maimed. She had broken into a Siggerdson. That was something only three or four people had done; and she was damn sure Jaxon wasn’t one of them. Brekker wouldn’t want her dead, he wouldn’t want her useless to him. Scared, sure. Beaten, quite possibly. Raped even. But still able to work.

Unless he knew she was able to use her left hand as well as her right hand. Brekker might be pissed off enough to let Jaxon maim one hand, knowing she could still use the other…

Jaxon squeezed a little more, the metal slicing through the thin flesh and reaching bone. “This is where muscle comes into play.”

“My thoughts exactly,” a new voice sounded, somewhere out of her narrowing field of vision. Damn, but through the blood pounding in her ears, it sounded like Hawke. She had no strength left to even consider trying to twist and see who was there—if she hadn’t imagined the voice. The noose was too tight, the clippers too tight, for her to attempt to move. Instead she hung here, dancing on her tiptoes, staring at Jaxon and his clippers.

Jaxon spun to face the intruders, one hand still holding the clippers in place. He saw two young men standing there, similar enough in coloring to be brothers. One held a greatsword in a competent manner, the other held a staff across his shoulders, his arms draped lazily over the thick rod. “Who are you fuckers?”

“Name’s Hawke,” the one with the staff spoke again, his stance appearing easy to anyone without a trained eye. Jaxon was no fool, had seen men hardened by adversity and war and death, and recognized those qualities in Hawke. “This is my brother, Carver. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t damage our employee there.”

“Your… employee?” Jaxon repeated.

“It means she works for us,” Carver quipped, aiming the point of his sword at the nearest thug. “I told you anyone who was dumb enough to mess with us, won’t be able to understand large words.”

“I know what employee means, you jackass!” Jaxon almost shouted.

“Ah, my faith in humanity is almost restored. Now show yourself to be a smart fellow and let our friend go,” Hawke nodded to Hrodwynn.

“Seems to me you’re the ones should be showing yourselves to be smart, by leaving,” Jaxon countered. “In case you can’t count, we have you outnumbered, seven to two.”

“Those would be bad odds,” Hawke agreed, trying not to see how purple Hrodwynn’s face was turning, or how quickly her fingers weakened at their clawing around the noose. “If they were accurate, I might be concerned. You fail, however, to take into consideration our positions.”

“Positions? You and your brother are right there, surrounded by four of my best fighters.”

Hawke allowed a smile to tug up one corner of his neatly trimmed beard. “A likely boast. I hardly think these are your best fighters, or they wouldn’t have let me go on like this for so long. But I digress. By positions, I mean our friend up there with the crossbow.”

Jaxon followed Hawke’s nod, looking at a stack of crates off to the side. Lying on top was a dwarf with a nasty-looking crossbow aimed directly between his eyes. He shifted slightly, placing Hrodwynn in the way of any incoming bolts. “Fine. Seven to three. Still not very good odds.”

“I make it four to four, don't you, Carver?”

“Quite,” he said shortly. He wanted to start fighting already, his sword thirsting for blood. Seeing Hrodwynn growing weaker and weaker felt like torture. And all that blood coming from her hand…

“Four to four?” Jaxon repeated, confused. “Count again. Your numbers are off!”

“Not really. Three of you are tied up with Hrodwynn, one holding the rope, one holding her hand, and you holding the clippers. That leaves four to fight us. But there’s not going to be a fight,” he predicted, stepping forward menacingly, taking one arm down from around his staff to point at Jaxon. “Because either you loosen your grip on Hrodwynn…”

“Or what?” Jaxon made it appear he was about to snap the clippers closed. Suddenly he stopped, his expression turning to fear and surprise.

“Or I won’t loosen my grip around your heart.” Fenris’ voice was harsh, as cruel as the thugs who had, until a few moments before, been eagerly watching a young girl being tormented.

The thug holding Hrodwynn’s hand cursed; he hadn’t even noticed the elf’s approach, conned like everyone else into looking up at the dwarf on the crates. He thought about letting go and stepping away, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did so, the strange elf glowing menacingly. Frozen in indecision, he looked to his boss for direction.

Jaxon was also at a loss for his next move. He believed Fenris, feeling the cold claws palpate within his chest. “Fuck!” he gasped, unable to fathom how such a thing could have happened. He trembled, every muscle in his body screaming for him to make a run for it.

“Go ahead,” Fenris droned in his ear, reading his mind. “Pull away. My hand won’t move. It’ll stay exactly where it is.” He leaned back slightly, as if he was giving Jaxon permission to try to get away. “Of course, your heart will also stay exactly where it is, within my fist. You’ll be ripping your own heart out of your chest.”

Jaxon’s trembling stilled.

“There, Carver, I think he finally gets it.” He didn’t answer Hawke, adjusting his grip on his greatsword, feeling too anxious to acknowledge their victory. Not until Hrodwynn was free. Not until they were well away.

Hawke ignored his brother’s petulant silence and took another step forward, swinging his staff easily from his shoulders to his hands. Jaxon tried to move back, remembered belatedly Fenris’ fist around his heart, and settled on a pathetic whine. “Brekker won’t forget this…”

“I hope not,” Hawke readily agreed. “Hrodwynn works for me now. No one from the Coterie is going to come after her. Understood? If anyone does…”

Fenris’ grip tightened right on cue.

“Let go of the clippers,” Hawke suggested, “Very carefully.”

Jaxon did so, the clippers falling away and leaving her hand intact. His men relinquished their own holds on her, letting go of her hand and the rope very gently. Hrodwynn wavered on her own two feet for a moment before she began to collapse. Carver sheathed his sword and raced to catch her before she could hit the floor. He cradled her on his lap, nearly breaking a fingernail in his eagerness to get the noose off her neck. Her eyes were open, but he couldn’t be sure she had seen him. She was breathing, however, and encourage by the sign of life, he ripped off part of his tunic to wrap around her bleeding finger.

The atmosphere in the room had remained tense, no one daring to do more than breathe. “Carver…?”

“She’s alive,” he answered Hawke’s prompt. He finished tying the makeshift bandage around her hand and lifted her up easily in his arms. Already the purple was fading from her face, though her breathing remained raspy and her eyes unfocused.

Hawke saw Varric climbing down the crates to join them, and knew it was time to go. “Well, it’s been lovely having this little chat with all of you, but it’s getting quite late and we must be going. Oh, I’m sure I don’t have to mention the whole obvious, tedious ‘don’t-follow-us’ bit. I think we’ve established you’re intelligent enough not to need the warning. Good day, gentlemen. Fenris…”

Hawke had to say this last bit, looking at the elf who continued to stand there, his hand around Jaxon’s heart, his expression dark. Truthfully Fenris hardly heard him, his thoughts full of the torment that Jaxon had just put Hrodwynn through, full of the torment he could inflict as justifiable retribution, full of the satisfaction he would feel when the blood-bloated muscle ruptured, hot liquid bursting out between his fingers…

“Fenris!”

He started out of his daydream, a little confused to find the man in front of him was still alive, and would remain alive. He hesitated a moment longer, feeling the heart beating rapidly with fear, before he finally withdrew.

Jaxon waited until the door closed, until the strangers and their unworldly elf were out of sight, before he dropped to his knees, the crotch of his leggings soaked.

Outside on the streets the four of them were hastening away as unobtrusively as possible. “Damn it, Fenris,” Hawke ground out between his teeth, “You almost ruined everything back there.”

“I fail to see the problem,” he replied mildly, his eyes scanning before them as well as behind them for danger.

“You nearly killed the git,” Hawke continued. “We need him alive, to report back to their boss that Hrodwynn is off limits.”

“If I had killed him, it wouldn’t have mattered,” Fenris argued. “The others could just as easily deliver the message as he could have. In fact, his death would have only added emphasis to how serious you are regarding her safety.”

“Could we argue ethics another time?” Varric suggested. “We really should get off the streets, in case that clip-happy maniac loses his wits and comes after us.”

“Good idea. Besides, Wynnie needs a healer,” Carver added his voice to Varric’s argument.

“And just where do you think I’m leading us?” Hawke snapped. “Anders’ clinic is only a few blocks away, around that corner.”

Carver shifted her weight, but truthfully she was nothing in comparison to the sword strapped across his back. “Let’s not dally, then. She’s passed out.”

In unison the other three men stopped and turned to look at the girl lying still in Carver’s arms. “Is she breathing?” Varric beat Fenris to the question.

“Yes, she’s merely fainted,” he assured them. They started walking again, but Fenris took a moment longer before he could pull his gaze away to watch for trouble.

“After what she’s been through, she’s earned it,” Hawke said with less heat, and far more concern than he had even shown towards her. Carver suppressed a smile; as much as he would have loved to tease his brother that he did care about Hrodwynn, now definitely wasn’t the time.

They reached the clinic without any fuss, though quite a few people did take notice of the unusual troupe, four men—two of which were human, one a dwarf, the last an elf—and one young woman. One concerned elderly woman and her son took enough interest to follow them, probably thinking the four of them might have unsavory designs on the girl, but backed off when they saw them knock on the clinic door.

Anders opened the door, the light silhouetting him from behind. Even so, Hawke could see the dark circles under his eyes, and the lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Anders had a clear view of them, though his eyes ignored their battered armor and drawn weapons to settle worriedly on Hrodwynn’s form lying boneless in Carver’s arms. “Get in! Quick!” he hissed, walking with Carver and checking over Hrodwynn as they approached the table, trusting the others to close the door.

“Set her down. Gently,” he added, unnecessarily.

“I will,” Carver assured him, mindful of the blood-soaked bandage around her hand and the abraded state of her neck.

“Bloody Void…” Anders voice faded away into the room, no one daring to breathe, watching him as he examined her for every injury. His pale fingers dabbed gently at the raw skin around her neck, and shook while unwinding the bandage to see the twin slices on her finger. Assuring himself that was the extent of her hurts, he leaned back and began casting a spell, spreading his hands over her. His eyes and hands glowed, almost radiated, with whitish-blue rays of light before he released the spell.

Hrodwynn gasped, her body arching on the table, her eyes flying open to stare unseeingly into the room. Carver gave a small cry and leaned over her, gripping her shoulders as she closed her eyes and her body relaxed.

“She’s alright,” Anders assured him, “Just asleep.” He watched for a moment while the young man continued to stroke the smooth skin of her neck and hand, needing to see for himself that she was healed. “Carver,” he remembered his name from their introduction the night he met Hawke at the Hanged Man. “Carver, why don’t you take her upstairs to her loft? She’ll sleep for a little bit, and it’ll be more comfortable if she’s in her own bed.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement, easily lifting her once more. “Her loft?”

“Over here,” Anders guided him over to where the ladder usually stood. He climbed onto a stool and reached up with his fingertips to push open the ceiling tile. Then he groped for a bit beyond the edge of the opening until he found a leg of the ladder. After he had pulled it down, Carver shifted Hrodwynn’s weight to dangle over his shoulder before he attempted to climb up to her loft. They all watched him carry her upstairs, Fenris standing guard at the base of the ladder in case he should happen to lose his grip.

Once they were safely in her loft and out of sight, Anders rounded on Hawke. “Not a hair on her head!” he hissed, his face so close to Hawke’s that a light film of spittle sprayed onto his cheeks. “You promised! You swore to me that not a hair would be harmed.”

“Hey, Blondie, calm down,” Varric tried to get between them, but Anders merely loomed over his shorter stature. Varric tried to ignore the insult, but he was getting damned tired of humans overlooking him—literally.

Hawke began to explain, stepping away from Anders, “She wasn’t hurt on the trip. This happened after we got back to Kirkwall.”

“Because of the job she did,” Varric tried again, “For the Coterie.”

At last Anders looked away from Hawke, his shoulders heaving with the effort of keeping himself under control. Fenris watched him warily, noting the signs, seeing the Abomination—that demon or spirit or whatever Anders preferred to call it—nearly break loose. Anders stepped away from all of them, reaching the table and gripping the edges tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. “The Coterie…?”

“Yes,” Hawke said, cautiously. “After we got back to Kirkwall this afternoon, and Hrodwynn left us to come back here, we noticed she was being followed.” Briefly he told Anders what had happened, the scene they had walked in on and all that they had overheard regarding the job. He knew it hurt Anders to hear how Hrodwynn had almost been maimed, even killed, but he wasn’t going to keep anything from the man. Not if Hawke wanted his cooperation later. And everything turned out for the best, after all, mostly.

“She’s not going to work for them, not anymore. She’ll work for me from now on. And I promise you, Anders, I won’t let her do anything dangerous.”

Anders had turned back around to lean against the table, though he stared at the floor. He seemed calmer, acknowledging that the danger was past, that Hrodwynn was fine, that everything would be alright from then on. He even managed a smile of a sort, a timid and awkward gesture, but at least genuine. “I… I should be thanking you, Hawke, for all you’ve done for her, not blaming you for something that was out of your control.” He paused to scratch at the side of his nose. “I’ve never spoken with her about it, telling myself she doesn’t need me sticking my nose into her business. I’m not her father. I’m not any relation to her at all. I’m just a poor bloke she stumbled across one cold night. I’ve been a coward, fearful that she’ll leave if I push too hard.” He lifted his eyes up to Hawke. “She’s special, she is, alive and vibrant, something rare and treasured in a place like Darktown. I… I couldn’t bear it if I lose her.”

“Do you mean,” Hawke began to think he had made a mistake encouraging Carver, “You love her?”

“Yes, well, no, not that way, not like that, I mean, more like a little sister or a favorite niece really.”

Anders said it so mildly, that Hawke nearly laughed with relief. Seeing that everything had worked out, more or less, and not hearing any noise from Hrodwynn’s loft, he decided it might be time to leave. “We should, ah, be going, I think.”

“Right,” Varric agreed with Hawke. “We do have plans for drinks at the Hanged Man. In celebration of our successful little enterprise.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Hawke offered. “Looks like you could use one or two stiff ones.”

Anders gave a small smile. “As long as you’re talking about drinks.”

“He is,” Varric assured him. “He has a date with Isabela for that other need.”

“Oh, Maker,” he swore, “Did you have to remind me?”

“What is this?”

“Never mind,” Hawke moaned. “Let’s get some drinks first. Then, I might tell you—if I get sotted enough.”

Hawke grabbed Anders by the arm, pulling him to his feet and starting him towards the door. He stumbled along reluctantly, one final thought occurring to him. “But what about Wynnie…” his voice trailed away as his face lifted to the ceiling. There were no sounds from the loft, Carver and Hrodwynn quiet.

“They’re fine,” Hawke tugged on his arm again. When Anders looked at him, he winked. “Let’s leave them be, shall we?”

“Oh! You mean, they, he and Wynnie, that they, but they wouldn’t, not tonight, would they?”

“Do you want to stay and find out?”

“No!” Anders answered a little too quickly. “I mean, yes, I’d love to go with you for a drink or two. Wynnie’s going to sleep the rest of the night, probably, most likely, considering what she’s been through. And your brother is here to keep a close eye on her.”

He raised his voice loud enough to carry upstairs. The tone sounded false, but Hawke hoped Carver had only heard the words. “Maker,” he muttered under his breath, finally getting Anders to the door.

Fenris was the last to move, still tense. Even after Anders calmed down, even after Hawke reassured him, even after Varric started smiling and joking again. He couldn’t let his guard down, not after all that had happened that night. He gave one final glance over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly, wondering why it was so quiet in the loft.

“Hey, elf,” Varric’s voice was just enough to distract him, “You play cards, don’t you?”

“I, er, that is, I’ve never had the opportunity to play myself, really, though I’ve watched others play.”

“Do you know how Wicked Grace is played?”

“I think I could figure it out.”

“Good! With Anders, we’ll have just enough to make the game interesting. Come on, I’ll even buy the first round of drinks.”

“How could I say no to that?” he asked rhetorically as Anders closed and locked the door behind them.

Carver hadn’t heard a single word the others said all evening. He didn’t even hear them leave. His whole attention, his whole world, centered around a small young woman with dark red hair. Carrying her up the ladder had been tricky. Getting her to her bed had been nearly impossible.

To say the ceiling was low would be an understatement. He rubbed at the sore spot just off center on his forehead, where he had collided with a rafter. At least he hadn’t rammed Hrodwynn into the beam, just his own head. He’d grown more cautious after that, bending over almost double, but the hilt of his greatsword kept catching on the rafters. He finally had to give up and remove his weapon and pack, so he could crawl on his knees with her in his arms. The light from below was just enough to see by, if he moved carefully. Yet it had been mostly luck that helped him find her bed, when his face ran into a makeshift canopy, a random weave of brightly colored strips of ribbons and remnants draped between two buttresses.

It was a small mattress, just her size, and felt soft enough to be stuffed with down. He wondered how she had managed it, until he found the discarded and empty pillows. He smiled at her ingenuity, thinking how long it must have taken her, smuggling one small—and undoubtedly stolen—down-filled pillow at a time up here and moving the contents from the pillow to the mattress. Yet she had persevered, and must sleep very peacefully at night knowing she had the most luxurious mattress in all of Darktown.

Thinking of his own hay-stuffed mattress in his uncle’s hovel, a twinge of jealousy spasmed in his heart.

He quickly pushed the emotion aside and focused on Hrodwynn. She had yet to wake up, which concerned him a little bit. He wanted to get her into bed, though not in that way, but he was fairly sure she wouldn’t thank him if she woke up in the morning to find her priceless mattress ruined by her stained and bloodied clothing. He was also fairly sure she wouldn’t thank him if she woke to find him undressing her. Feeling trapped, and like a first rate jackass, he decided to try to gently wake her, and he’d start with getting her cleaned up.

It took several long moments of fumbling round in the semidarkness, but he finally found where he had abandoned his pack. He brought it back to her side, searching the contents mostly by touch, taking out what he would need. He worked efficiently, lighting a candle to see by and using a spare tunic as a washrag. He started with her hand, rolling up the sleeve and wiping off the sticky, half-dried blood. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he shifted to wipe the grime off of her face.

Her eyes opened at some time during this, though he couldn’t be quite sure when. She didn’t speak, not right away, but he did suddenly realize that not only were her eyes opened just a bit, but they were focused on his face.

“Hey,” he said softly, giving her a timid smile.

“Hey,” she answered, her voice hoarse. She gave a small cough to clear her throat, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Memory flooded back at that moment, crashing over her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her in sensory overload. She gasped and tried to sit up, but Carver was in her way. Changing trajectory, she lurched and rolled off to the side, finding a face-full of empty pillow fabric.

“Take it easy, Wynnie, you’re alright. You’re safe. Back home, in Kirkwall, your own room, your own bed. It’s over, Wynnie. You’re safe.”

Some of what he said penetrated her scattered wits, his calm tone doing more to reassure her than anything else at that moment. She rolled back to look at him, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek, to confirm that he was real. Then her eyes focused on her finger, still attached, without even a scar to remind her of her near miss.

“You with me yet?” he asked. She looked back at him, finding his blue eyes even softer in the dim light, overflowing with concern.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears. Damn, she was tired. But looking past him she could see she was in her loft over Anders’ clinic, and taking a deep breath she could feel she was alive and whole.

“I was, ah, that is, I thought you might want to sleep, you know, in your bed, but not with your clothes on, on account that they’re, well, filthy. I was only going to clean you up a bit, wipe off the worst of it, and then, well…” his stammering finally trailed away, a bashful heat threatening to crawl from his neck to his forehead.

Hrodwynn didn’t quite follow all that he said, or maybe she was too tired to care. She also didn’t make the effort to look too closely into her own motives. Her fingers began unlacing the neck of her tunic even as her feet rubbed against each other, trying to kick off her boots. Carver reached down and helped with the boots, looking up in time to see her toss her tunic aside. He swallowed thickly, thankful that she was wearing small clothes, but then she began undoing the fastenings of her leggings. He found himself staring as she wiggled and wormed her way out of the skin-tight fabric.

He sat, frozen, hardly daring to breathe, as he watched her slip beneath the covers, catching more than a glimpse of her smooth skin the color of cream. He should leave, he knew he should leave, for her own good if not for his. He didn’t trust himself, not after what he’d seen. Despite her youthfulness and small size, she had the body of a woman, round and soft in all the right areas. And his own body became hard in contrast.

“I… ah… should…“ he cleared his throat, not wanting to say those words, knowing he should, but damn it!

Then she rolled back to look at him, her emerald eyes deeper and darker in the faint light, and sealed his fate. “Carver, please,” her small voice barely reached his ears, “I’m still a little shaky. Don’t leave me alone, please. Stay with me tonight. Hold me. Please?”

Briefly he wondered if any man faced such a doom with such a mixture of eagerness and dread. He nodded, fearing his words might betray him and destroy this opportunity if he gave them voice. He kicked out of his boots and slipped out of his vest and tunic so fast he nearly tore a buckle. In a final effort to spare her—or himself—some trouble, he kept his leggings on and made himself remain outside the covers. He did open his arms, her small body cocooned within the blankets curling invitingly into his side, her dark red mane tucking under his chin, her cheek resting against his tattooed chest.

One hand came out of the covers to curl over a sparse patch of chest hair, artfully blended in with the snout of the Mabari. She gave a little contented smile before blissful slumber overtook her.

It was hours before Carver found the strength to relinquish his body to sleep.


	10. ...Deserves Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is my first time, so please be gentle. *ahem* I mean, this is my first attempt at writing a m/m scene, and I’m really nervous about it, so please take that into consideration when reviewing. (yeah, that’s what I meant…)  
> Also, sorry for the length, but I couldn’t bring myself to break it up or edit it down. Hopefully, I will keep you engaged enough that you won't care how long it is ;D

Fenris stalked through the darkened halls of his purloined mansion, muttering to himself. Hawke and his business propositions… He had been on no less than ten of these little adventures with the damn mage over the past several months. His debt to Hawke had to be paid off by now, yet he could never bring it up, his pride preventing him from asking.

He fingered the pouch at his waist, the leather purse heavier after this latest outing. He supposed, if Hawke was giving him a fair share of the profits, that he no longer owed him anything. It was an inference, but one he was comfortable making—if uncomfortable voicing. Namely because it brought up an even more uncomfortable question: if he was no longer obliged to Hawke, why did he keep accepting his offers of employment? He ought to be free now, free to live his life however he chose, do whatever work appealed to him, even leave Kirkwall and… and…

He paused mid-step as he entered his bedchamber, his thoughts crashing to a halt as he realized the ugly truth. He didn’t know what to do. He had no reason to stay, but he also had no reason to leave. Hawke’s little quests, as annoying and somewhat life-threatening as they were, at least gave him something to look forward to, something to live for, a reason to stay.

Disgusted with himself for the lack of direction in his life, disguising it within his hatred for mages which happened to include Hawke by default, he tossed the coin purse harshly onto the lid of a chest. It landed with a satisfying thud, giving him an excuse to lift one corner of his mouth in a self-satisfied manner.

Cassia, however, was not pleased. She had been hiding behind the chest waiting for Fenris to return so she could pounce on him. After several hours and no sign of her fellow tenant—a cat would never have an owner—she had curled up to nap until he showed. The sound of the heavy purse hitting the nearly empty wooden chest was quite loud to her tender ears. She hissed and jumped straight up into the air, her wide eyes zeroing in on his tall form.

“Sorry, Cassia, I didn’t see you there,” he tried to placate her, feeling a little ashamed of himself. He bent down to give her an apology in the form of attention, but she was quite through with him—for the moment, at least. She hissed again and flicked her tail, narrowing her eyes and folding her ears back threateningly. His hand paused and, thinking it was his gauntlet that was scaring her—even though it never had before—he removed it. Reaching out again with a naked hand only elicited another hiss.

“Yes, well,” he sighed, leaning back and giving her a respectable amount of space, “Perhaps I should let you cool down before I try apologizing again.”

As if she understood him perfectly, she relaxed her own stance a bit, gave her tail one last flick, and quickly slipped past him for the door.

“Just like a woman,” he stared after her, “Temperamental to the very core.”

As he stood up, he heard a knock echoing through the empty mansion, emanating from the front door. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, wondering who in the Void would come by at this time of night for a visit. The only person who had ever visited him so late had been Hrodwynn, but he doubted it was her. She had been enamored with Carver, the two of them sickeningly inseparable ever since her brush with death two months ago. Never mind that there had been four of them who rescued her, never mind that his own hand around the leader’s heart had tipped the scales in their favor… No, Carver had been the only one she had seen, his arms catching her as she collapsed, and his face there when she finally woke from the nightmare.

Damn him.

The knock sounded again, and he reluctantly set aside his brooding to go answer it.

Whomever he had expected to come by, Hawke was the furthest person from his mind. Yet it was Hawke who stood there, a charming smile peeking out from beneath his perfectly trimmed beard, a small box tucked beneath one arm. “Good evening, Fenris.”

“Hawke,” he acknowledged, at a loss to know why the mage was standing on his stoop.

Hawke cleared his throat, but Fenris didn’t take the hint, the tall elf simply standing and staring at him. He decided to try something a little more forthcoming. “Pleasant weather this evening, isn’t it?”

Fenris blinked at him, wondering why he would come by just to talk about the weather. “Yes.”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to stand out here all night,” he prompted.

Fenris finally collected his slow wits, gesturing a welcome with his hand as he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Excuse me, I wasn’t expecting company tonight. Please, come in.”

“Oh, thank you, but I’m not intruding, am I? You mentioned you weren’t expecting anyone. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of something…” Hawke had every intention of staying, despite his words, but manners dictated that he appear contrite for stopping by unannounced.

“No, not at all,” he assured Hawke. “I only meant, I don’t often have visitors. In fact, I… never have visitors.”

“I’m your first,” Hawke purred somewhat suggestively, “That’s one for me.”

“Ah,” he didn’t know how to respond to that, so he ignored it. “What’s in the box?”

Hawke smiled again, wide and warm, and responded, “Dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes,” he all but sighed, walking into the main hall and turning around, looking every which way as he elaborated. “You remember the bargain we made, a favor for a favor, I distract Hrodwynn from developing a crush on you, and you would in turn do something unspecified for me. Well, tonight’s the night! Carver brought Hrodwynn over to meet mother, a perfectly normal and favorite-son-type-of-thing he would do.” Hawke paused to make a disgusted noise. “Mother’s been cooing and fussing over Hrodwynn non-stop. And even when she pauses to take a breath, Carver jumps in to expound upon yet another wonderful trait of the darling girl. Dear Uncle Gamlen lasted ten minutes before he had to escape. I suspect he fully intends to spend the entire night at the Blooming Rose. Where is your kitchen?”

“What?” Fenris was still off-balance at Hawke’s unexpected arrival, and the sudden change in topic left him dumbstruck for several seconds. “Oh, ah, down the hall, last door on the left.”

“Ah! Marvelous!” Hawke started that way, rummaging in the box while he continued to talk. “Where was I? Oh, yes, I decided to follow my uncle’s—for once—sterling example and excuse myself for the evening. Wouldn’t want to disgrace the family name by throwing up over all the sickening sweetness. Ugh!” He stopped suddenly, having just entered the kitchen. Fenris wasn’t sure if he made the noise over the actions of his family, or over the sight of the disused room. “Have you ever used this room? Have you ever cleaned it? No, wait, don’t answer that. Just tell me, where do you usually eat?”

“At the Hanged Man,” he answered truthfully, if somewhat confused.

“Not tonight, however,” Hawke wagged a finger at him. “I know for a fact you did not eat there, because today’s mystery meat in the stew was fish, and you never eat fish. Of course, considering how they treat such a delicate meat, macerating it into a grey goo, I don’t blame you. Still,” he forced his voice into a more chipper tone, “I’ve brought a couple of tender slabs of beef to fry up, assuming you have a place to cook them.” Hawke gave the disgusting kitchen one last glance before turning to face Fenris, an expectant look on his face.

Seeing as Hawke was finally quiet for a moment, Fenris seized his opportunity to clarify an important matter. “What—exactly—are you doing here?”

“Collecting on my favor,” Hawke stated in a tone that told him it should have been obvious. “I need to spend the evening away from my home. And since said inconvenience is due to your favor, I decided you could repay me by letting me spend the evening here. To make it more pleasant, I even brought dinner. All I require is a place to cook it.”

“Oh.” If Fenris sounded surprised, it was because he was surprised. He had had no idea what Hawke might have asked in return for that favor, and after two months he had begun to foolishly believe Hawke might have forgotten all about it. Though having such an easy repayment left him a little wary, he quickly brushed the suspicion aside. An evening was only a few short hours, a limited amount of time that could pass quickly if the conditions were right. Hawke had brought food, and if he wasn’t mistaken there was a bottle of wine tucked in a corner of the box. This could be quite an easy favor, all things considered. “I suppose the hearth in the master bedchamber would suffice. That is the only room I use.”

“Excellent!” Hawke beamed at him, barely able to hide his elation. Truthfully, he still harbored hopes of bedding Fenris, despite the past two months of stagnation. He’d never so much as gotten any sort of indication if Fenris would be either interested or repulsed by the proposition. Tonight might be different, if he played his cards right, especially if the evening started in the bedroom. He fished out the bottle of wine and handed it to his unsuspecting host. “Lead the way.”

It wasn’t long before Fenris found himself enjoying the evening and Hawke’s company. The mage proved to be an excellent and knowledgable cook, searing the steaks quickly to a tender and tasty rare while a couple of apple turnovers warmed off to the side. The wine was heady and fruity, strong enough not to be overpowered by the flavorful beef, while being just sweet enough to perfectly match the delicate apple pastry.

The conversation was just as enjoyable. Hawke commandeered most of it by telling stories about his childhood and young adult life, the trouble he and his siblings used to get into, and out of, on what seemed like a daily basis. They avoided the table and sat on the couch in front of the fire, the setting warm and friendly and open, just two men sharing a meal and a couple of drinks.

He finished his first glass with the last bite of turnover, and Hawke immediately refilled it. He had to smile, albeit privately, at the thought that Hawke might be trying to get him drunk—such an endeavor would be foolish. Fenris knew he had a high tolerance for alcohol. There had been that one night he got rather tight after drinking nearly an entire bottle of Agreggio Pavali, but he had been half-starved and exhausted after spending years on the run; naturally his weakened body couldn’t efficiently process the potent drink. Tonight he was well-fed and well-rested, his body honed by months of effective, if somewhat near-death, exercise. There was no chance in the Void that he’d get inebriated on a glass or two of wine.

Hawke, however, seemed oblivious to this. He poured the last of the bottle into his own glass and lifted it in salute. “Cheers.”

“Benefaris,” he agreed, studying Hawke over the rim of the cup as he took a sip. He couldn’t be sure in the flickering firelight, but Hawke’s cheeks looked faintly pink beneath his beard. And his warm golden eyes were unsettled, moving from place to place, as if casting about for a topic of conversation, stalling for time while he tried to think of how to bring up what he truly wanted to say. All through dinner Hawke never once meet his gaze. He was nervous, and it had to be due to something more than Carver’s bringing Hrodwynn home to meet their mother.

Yet Fenris was equally at a loss to know how to bring up the conversation, even if he knew what it was Hawke wanted to talk about.

He set the glass aside with the convoluted thought.

“Not thirsty?” Hawke asked, noticing the movement, “Or… have I overstayed my welcome?”

Was it just his imagination, or did Hawke sound severely despondent? “Not at all,” he assured him. “This has been quite an enjoyable way to repay a favor.”

“You are enjoying this?” Hawke’s tone was suddenly hopeful, and for the first time since they sat down, he looked up. “Good.” Just as quickly he looked away again, staring into the firelight that matched his eyes. “I was afraid I was talking too much, boring you, or giving you the impression that I’m self-centered.”

“That’s not the impression I have of you,” he admitted.

“What is your impression of me,” Hawke gave him another glance, “If I may be so bold as to ask?”

There was something there, in the air between them, that he couldn’t quite make out or comprehend, a fact which made him uncomfortable. Feeling his way carefully through the conversation, he began, “You are a powerful mage, one who doesn’t use Blood Magic… yet.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hawke replied glibly. “What else?”

“Er… you love your brother dearly, though you continually hide it with sarcasm and goading. You are extremely loyal to your family and friends, often self-sacrificing despite protests to the contrary.”

“Says the man who tried to save a girl from a dragon, a girl whom he was afraid already had a crush on him.”

He did not appreciate being reminded of that day, how he had nearly kissed Hrodwynn even knowing he shouldn’t do anything to encourage her to develop feelings towards him. Not that Hawke, or anyone, knew how close he had come to losing control. Feeling chagrin, his next comment came out a little too harsh. “You are overly concerned with your appearance, and homosexual.”

“Stop right there!” Hawke threw up a hand, palm outwards, for emphasis. He blew out a harsh breath through his nose, changing his gesture to point a finger at him, “Not another word.” He stood up, pacing as he accused, “How dare you? How dare you assume I’m homosexual, simply because I take a little pride in my clothing or my hair. Perhaps you think I should lisp, or, or, or flail my wrists when I walk! Perhaps you think I like wearing dresses when no one’s around, or paint my face with rouge and my lips with wax…”

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he finally got Hawke to listen, after following him around the room and penning him in the corner near the bed. He wondered how he could have been wrong in his assumptions. He was sure Hawke preferred men, but Hawke’s vehement reaction to being called such gave him cause to reconsider. “I didn’t mean for those two statements to be taken as mutually dependent.” He reached out a hand, not to touch Hawke, but to placate him.

“Well…” Hawke sighed, eying the faint markings on his hand, still miffed but willing to calm down, “Well, fine, then. Just so you realize, I’m not homosexual because I have proper grooming habits.”

“Of course not,” he quickly agreed.

“I’m homosexual because I prefer cock to pussy.”

The noises of nighttime suddenly grew loud in his ears, crickets chirping and a neighbor’s restless watchdog sounding as if they were in the room with them. Fenris stood still for a count of ten before he could speak. “Kaffas, Hawke, that’s putting it… honestly.”

They stood there a moment longer, before the corner of Hawke’s mouth curled ever so slightly. Fenris unwittingly answered with his own timid attempt, which relieved Hawke enough to start laughing. His straight, white teeth were dazzling in the dim light. “I do prefer to be honest, when it comes to sex. I find it saves a lot of time and misunderstanding later. Don’t you agree?”

“I… ah…” he suddenly felt uneasy, that troublesome and indefinable ‘thing’ coming up between them again.

Hawke tilted his head coyly, still light-hearted and teasing, “Oh, come on, you’ve had sex, haven’t you? You’re too good-looking to be a virgin.”

Images flashed in his mind, long-buried and unwanted, of bodies and heat and sweat and…

“Fenris?”

…hands, hands that grabbed, hands that pulled, hands that hurt, hands that were reaching for him even now…

Hawke had intended to reassure him, his touch light on his shoulder, long fingers stroking with care. Fenris, however, did not welcome the comfort. He slapped Hawke’s hand away, his expression darkening even further, a lip that had nearly curled into a smile now curling into a snarl. Hawke wasn’t sure if Fenris could hear him, or if he was too lost within the sudden anger, but he had to try to make amends. “I’m sorry, Fenris, if I’ve said something to upset you.”

It was too late; the wound had already been reopened. Instinctively Fenris invoked the lyrium within his body as he leaned forward, the rage swelling within his chest, building him up and giving him strength. “Why can’t people leave my past alone?” he grabbed Hawke’s shoulders and slammed him against the wall. “What do you want me to say?” he loomed until their noses were almost touching, his teeth bared like his namesake. “Do you need to hear every sordid detail?” Both hands, claw-like even without the gauntlets, released his shoulders to press against the wall on either side of his head. “Yes, I’ve had intercourse. But I had no choice. I was a slave. You have no idea… can’t comprehend… what I felt… how I acted… the only way I could act… I never—Never!—had even the weakest impulse, much less the right to withhold my consent!”

Either silence met his outburst, or his ears were ringing too loudly for him to hear Hawke’s panting breaths. The lack of protest—the lack of anything to fight against—was sufficient to bring him out of his rage. He blinked, and the face that came into focus before him wasn’t a lustful and possessive Danarius, but a very confused and tense-looking Hawke. Immediately he felt surprised by his own actions. He pulled back, his expression losing its heat in the face of his shock over his outburst.

“… Hawke, I…”

The words stopped as suddenly as they had started. What could he say, how could he explain, why he had reacted that way? His eyebrows curved with shame and remorse, his lips parted but empty of words, his dull green eyes searching for acceptance or forgiveness.

“No, Fenris,” Hawke started, paused to clear his throat, and tried again, “I should apologize. You are right. I had no idea. I only thought… you’ve been free for years now… I thought for sure you would have… with someone… at some point…”

Fenris shook his head, feeling it was hard to breathe, his words staggering. “No, no one. I’ve… never stayed in one place… long enough to… form an attachment… with anyone… until now…”

He watched Hawke watching him, those golden eyes flickering between his. Slowly Hawke's expression changed, the tiny crease between his brows softening, his eyes widening, lips sliding from awe to understanding. A hand came up, slowly, as if Hawke was afraid of startling a wild animal, and touched his cheek. It was warm, tender, a welcome sort of feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time, and even then it had been too infrequent an occurrence. Instinctively he leaned into it, wanting only to savor the feel of another person, the feel of a touch that didn’t cause suffering.

“Fenris…” Hawke breathed. “I… do you mean…” he paused and licked his lips. “Oh, bollocks!”

The kiss was chaste, a simple meeting of lips, Hawke’s warmth feeding his own. The act was so unexpected that he froze, shocked into stillness, completely adrift. Should he push Hawke away? Should he draw him closer? For the first time in his life, he was in this situation without direction, without any clue as to what his actions should be. That wasn’t to say he had forgotten how to pleasure a man, but this time he had a choice. This time he had the right to withhold his consent. And that new option left him paralyzed.

Hawke was watching him again, waiting, expectant and longing. Fenris realized, however woefully long it had taken him to do so, that Hawke was interested in him. Hawke had come here, tonight, with the hope that something like this might happen. That was why the atmosphere between them was so heavy, electrified, as if on the verge of igniting.

Could he? Could he ignite that something between them? The simple answer was: yes, he knew what to do. But the harder question to answer was: did he want to? This was too new to him, too strange, like a skill he held no expertise in, or a region he had never scouted. For several heartbeats he stood there, lost, adrift, and Hawke refused to throw him a lifeline. It was up to him to act, to either accept or reject, to choose…

Leaning forwards once more, he pressed their lips together.

Hawke’s hand returned to him, fingers burrowing through his hair. He tensed, fully expecting the grabbing and pulling to start, but Hawke only combed the short strands. He pulled away, and was amazed when Hawke let him. He stared, his lips parted and wet with their mixed saliva, his expression needy. Whether Hawke misunderstood his need, or he himself misunderstood it, didn’t really matter. The end result was the same: Hawke took control.

He found Hawke’s touch to be considerate, careful, wary of those things that hurt or cause discomfort, physical and emotional. Hawke started by slowly stepping away from the wall, one hand still in his hair while the other tried to undo the fastenings on his clothing. Hawke fumbled and cursed after a moment, before reluctantly using both hands to work open the closures. He stood and watched Hawke, curious and amazed, and possibly a little apprehensive over what would be the mage’s reaction to his body. As if he could hear or taste his nervousness, Hawke stopped, pausing to look into his eyes, his brows curved questioningly, silently making the offer to stop if he wished it.

His answer was just as unspoken. He took over from Hawke, his fingers sure and firm as he undid the last closure and pulled his tunic from his torso. And there they were, the damnable markings, exposed to the mage’s greedy eyes. The placement of the lyrium seemed to mimic the contours and flows of his body, bones and muscles and organs and veins, drawing the eye to key areas and holding the gaze there. Yet Hawke didn’t stare covetously at them as others had, instead taking in the whole of him—not just the lyrium, but the shadows formed between his muscles and the light dusting of black hair falling from his navel. There was lust in his expression, yes, but it wasn’t from a magical perspective.

The pads of Hawke’s thumbs brushed across his nipples, eliciting a nearly inaudible gasp and increasing the strain inside his leggings.

Seemingly encouraged by the subtle reaction, Hawke took hold of his shoulders—mindful of the markings—and spun his back to the wall. He pressed against Fenris, lining up their erections, rubbing and allowing the fiction of their clothing to stimulate them both. At the same time Hawke kissed him, deeper this time, his tongue demanding an entrance which Fenris readily granted.

When Hawke pulled back, he seemed surprised to find his coat was halfway undone. He didn’t stop the elf, however, allowing him to finish and toss the coat aside before starting on the tunic. When Hawke took over, impatient with his slower and out-of-practice movements, he slid down to his knees between him and the wall. Hawke took half a step backwards, either surprised by the action or giving him room, perhaps a little of both. He stopped moving when Fenris' hands came up to undo the belt buckle. He gripped the waist of Hawke’s leggings and underpants and pulled down slowly. A moment later, and Hawke’s erection flopped free of the fabric. Fenris heard him sigh, “Maker!” as he took the flared head into his mouth.

The musky smell of sweat and male filled his nostrils with each breath. This was familiar. This was known. This was something Fenris understood, something where he knew his role, what actions to take. Expertly he worked his mouth over Hawke’s cock, pulling off the head and leaving it wet and glistening with his spit. He pressed his parted lips against the side and slid towards the base, causing a moan to sound from the chest above. He continued, sliding up and down the shaft, all around it in a languid tunnel, the pressure firm enough to stimulate, the touch moist enough to move freely. After completing his circuit, he slid down to the base and further, his warm mouth enveloping first one testicle, then the other, his tongue massaging and weighing each of them in turn. All the while his hands gripped the hips, steadying his movements against the involuntary bucking.

“…Fenris…” he heard the breathy plea, felt the keen twining of fingers in his hair, and sensed Hawke was getting close. He didn’t stop right away, knowing it would be better if he took Hawke to the edge, if he held him there, teasing him for just a little longer.

“Fenris, I… Maker!”

He finally let go, with his mouth at least, his hands still full of hips. Then he blew, very gently, across the moistened shaft, the light breeze caused by his breath cooling the saliva. Hawke gasped again and bucked almost violently, “Shit!”

The smallest amount dripped out of the tip, but Hawke didn’t come.

Hawke did have his fill of being teased, however. He tugged on Fenris’ shoulders, encouraging him to stand out of the way so he could finish undressing, yanking down his leggings and underpants only to get tangled by his boots. He cursed, lost his balance, and flailed his arms for something to stop his fall. He found a handful of flesh and held on tight even as the room tipped around him.

Fenris felt the tight grip on his wrist and ignored the ache as his markings were touched, more concerned about their trajectory as Hawke pulled him along. He pushed with his legs, angling their descent, causing the two of them to land heavily on the bed. Hawke’s breath escaped in a “Whoosh!” that left him gasping, and Fenris rolled himself beneath to ease the pressure on Hawke’s torso.

The two of them lay there, Hawke struggling for breath, Fenris blocking out any sign of discomfort over having so many markings continually pressed. At last Hawke seemed to come back to himself, and smiled a little bashfully. “Oops.” He angled himself up on his elbows, holding his body away from Fenris, easing some of the irritation.

Fenris didn’t speak, not knowing what to say. He watched with the eyes of a predator as Hawke moved, crawling backwards to the edge of the bed. There he stood and finished removing his clothing, carefully this time, before he turned to fully face the bed. He stood still a moment, allowing Fenris the opportunity to study his body, completely at ease without a stitch of clothing on. And Fenris had to admit he admired Hawke’s body. Most mages focused on their magic so much, they neglected their bodies, often becoming so soft and weak that they could be easily felled by a single blow. Not Hawke. It was true he wielded magic, but the mace on one end of his staff was not for show. The firm biceps, broad chest and well-defined abdominals gave testament to this fact.

Hawke hesitantly reached out to take hold of Fenris’ lower leg, gripping one of those strange, sole-less boots—which were nothing more than overzealous shin guards and almost as tight as the matching leggings. When there was no sound or movement of protest, he pulled it off. Encouraged by Fenris’ apparent acquiescence, Hawke quickly had the rest of his clothing removed, until there was nothing left between them but that electrically charged air. If he found Fenris’ lack of underpants noteworthy he didn’t comment, his only indication that he had noticed was a surprised parting of his lips. Hawke hesitated a moment, his eyes sweeping up and down the whole length of him. Fenris stared back, still with those watchful, wary, bottomless green eyes.

In a reversal of his earlier action, Hawke crawled onto the bed, back up to lean over Fenris, one leg pressing down between his thighs. Fenris felt the heat rolling off his body, but that was all. When Hawke’s lips descended, the rest of him remained tented over him, overly cautious of the markings. In an effort to put Hawke at ease, he lifted his hands and took hold of his hips, pulling their crotches together.

Hawke’s erection was swollen, heated, ready to burst. His own was only partially hardened. His needs usually hadn’t been met whenever he had engaged in this activity, so one could argue he had been trained not to expect satisfaction—which could explain why he remained under-inflated. Hawke must have noticed this, but he didn’t comment. Instead he seemed to take it as a challenge, something Fenris definitely hadn’t expected.

Hawke lowered his face to kiss him again, parting his lips and gaining entrance to his mouth with a swipe of his tongue. At the same time Hawke’s hands sought his, pressing their palms together, sliding their fingers side-by-side, so they could hold hands without touching too many of the markings. It was a tender gesture, thoughtful, unlooked-for, and it had the desired outcome. The place where their bodies pressed together grew a little warmer, a little more crowded.

He sighed when Hawke broke off the kiss, sounding a little disappointed in his own ears, but no other protest was made. Not when Hawke’s mouth descended to his chest, his tongue tracing between the lines, bending around the curls, circling the dots. Hawke’s teeth joined in when he came across a nipple, tugging on it gently.

He arched his back, only slightly, the reflexive property of the motion giving him pause. He was responding, sexually, to Hawke.

He had thought he knew what he was doing; hadn't he done this enough times while a slave? He knew how to touch to cause the most stimulation for his partner, either male or female. And he could act aroused and wanton, moaning when warranted and suppressing gasps of pain when necessary. But Hawke was changing the rules on him. Hawke was seeing to his needs, as much as his own. He was courteous and caring and attentive.

And Fenris was suffering the effects of such ministrations.

“Oil.”

His brow scrunched mildly as he lifted his head to look at Hawke. “What?”

“Do you have any oil? Or ointment? Some kind of lubrication?”

Immediately he surmised that Hawke was ready for penetration. Would the mage simply use spit, since there was nothing else? He doubted Hawke would stop now, with both of them so aroused. He swallowed, never having felt so nervous before, and had to shake his head. “I… no… I haven’t…”

Hawke drew a face as he thought for a moment. Suddenly his expression brightened and he pulled away. “I’ll be right back.”

Confused, Fenris pushed himself up onto his elbows to watch. Hawke left the bed to return to the fire, rummaging for a moment in the box he had brought. When he stood back up, a small vial of cooking oil was in his hand. He turned and smiled brightly when he saw Fenris staring at him, and gestured with the bottle, “Not ideal, but it’ll work well enough.”

Damn him, but he was too nice.

His breathing was elevated when Hawke returned to the bed, whether from excitement or arousal or need or confusion or…

Damn him.

Unable to look away, he saw Hawke tip the bottle, spreading a little of the oil over the fingers of one hand. Another nervous swallow choked his throat, his eyes following those glistening fingers until they fell out of sight.

He sucked in a short gasp, feeling one of those slick digits stroke lightly along the crevice of his ass. He continued to hold Hawke’s gaze, disbelief warring with anticipation across his own features, as he was tenderly and intimately caressed. Hawke’s free hand took his again, fingers side-by-side once more, before he pressed that one finger against his hole.

It had been so long, so very long, since he’d been touched there by another person. He’d forgotten how it felt, how his emotions tightened up in the center of his chest, bursting with the brief worry that it might hurt too much and he’d be forced to hide it. He reminded himself that he was free now and not a slave; he could ask Hawke to stop and he would. He didn’t think it would get to be too painful, however, not if Hawke continued to be so receptive of his hidden reactions and needs. Even now, Hawke’s finger didn’t push inside, but hovered on the edge, teasing the rim, drawing back to circle the ring of muscle before returning to holding just outside…

Again his body responded involuntarily, arching his back, pushing his hips downward, trying to impale himself on that single finger.

The light laughter floating above him made his glazed eyes return to focus. Hawke was smiling, not quite smirking, but definitely enjoying himself. The pompous ass. Yet he couldn’t berate him for it, writhing beneath him, his body dancing to Hawke’s tune so mindlessly…

The finger slipped inside, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head.

Fasta vass, but Hawke had long fingers. This one pushed in, slowly but relentlessly, letting him know in no uncertain terms that this wasn’t ending any time soon. He imagined he could feel each knuckle, stretching him just a little wider, as they passed inside. Deeper Hawke went, the feeling alien and wrong and hot and exciting—like he was getting away with something, some sort of mischief, some little misadventure. It burned him, a lustful fire that seared through from his spine to his cock, hardening it further, making it twitch where it lay against his hip.

At last Hawke stopped, presumably because he ran out of finger. Fenris couldn’t care, panting, feeling his skin flush, feeling the sweat break out all over his body. He didn’t dare move, in case there was more finger to be had, but lay there passively reactive like a bowl of jelly, trembling at the slightest twitch of that damnably long finger. Then Hawke began to withdraw it, as excruciatingly slowly as he entered, enticing a hungry moan from Fenris’ chest.

The self-satisfied laughter sounded once more in his ears, but he couldn’t be made to care. The next moment he gasped, his muscles tightening down, his hand squeezing Hawke’s fingers as the markings began to glow.

“What is it?” Hawke asked, concerned.

Fenris had been so distracted by Hawke’s initial solicitude, he hadn’t been prepared for the second finger quite so soon. Only the tips of the two fingers were inside him, but it was enough to stretch too far, and he had unthinkingly let the pain show. He shook his head, tried to suppress the agony, deny the discomfort, but Hawke wouldn’t have it. He pulled his fingers out, picked up the vial of oil and poured a little more on. When his hand returned to Fenris’ ass, try though he might he couldn’t hide the catch in his breathing that belied his apprehension. Hawke left his fingers just outside, circling the entrance, and leaned over him to steal another kiss.

Damn him again! Hawke was showing that consideration, that thoughtfulness and care over his feelings and comfort, and even though he knew what Hawke was doing… he fell for it. He let himself get involved in the kiss, get distracted by the tongue warring with his own, become focused on those heated lips as they pulled away to trail down his neck. By the time the close-clipped hairs of that perfectly shaped beard were teasing his nipples, those two fingers were once more inside him. They stretched him even wider, making a scissoring motion, loosening him, preparing him for what would come.

And he no longer cared.

A third finger joined, causing hardly a ripple of concern as Hawke’s mouth was near the vicinity, his tongue stroking the length of his shaft. He focused all his attention on that mouth, on the warmth surrounding his cock, sliding up and down, tight and wet and oh-so-desirable. When the fingers pulled out, he hardly noticed it. When Hawke raised himself up, it didn’t seem a cause for alarm.

But when that blunt dagger was pushed against him, his loosened insides betrayed him and tightened. Hawke didn’t miss a beat, sensing the unease, holding himself just outside while he kissed Fenris. This time it didn’t appear that a kiss would be enough to distract him from the anticipated ache, so Hawke slipped one finger inside again, easier despite his tension, and pushed in deep.

He felt the finger moving around inside him, and he knew what Hawke was trying to do. He’d done it himself a few times, mostly in conjunction with another act, his mouth working from the front while his fingers worked from the back. He’d never had anyone do it to him, however, and was taken completely by surprised, and completely unprepared for, his reaction.

The tip of Hawke’s finger found that sensitive, sweet little spot inside him. Immediately his body took over from his mind, acting of its own accord, working towards its own agenda. His muscles flexed, trying to draw that finger further inside, to keep it rubbing against the spot. His cock jerked and twitched, milky drops of pre-come escaping to moisten the swollen and sensitive head. A moan wheezed from his chest, hungry and full of desire. He half expected that self-satisfied laughter to sound again, but this time it didn’t. Risking a glance, he found Hawke’s expression to be serious, studying him and his responses, looking for some particular reaction.

Hawke must have approved of what he saw, because his finger withdrew to be quickly replaced by his cock. The blood-engorged shaft was heated, bloated, and oh-so-firm as it pushed slowly into him. He was back in control of himself and focused on relaxing his body, on allowing the foreign object entrance, on permitting a motion that was contrary to what usually occurred. There was some excitement returning to him, that feeling again that he was getting away with some mischief, that he was doing something forbidden. Yet how could it be forbidden, if the two of them wanted it so badly? It didn’t affect anyone else; it didn’t cause anyone any harm. And it created such indescribable, unparalleled pleasure…

Though Hawke tried to move slowly, tried to draw it out, it wasn’t long before he heard Hawke’s breath start to catch. Fenris reached up, took hold of that carefully mussed mane, and pulled Hawke down for a kiss, swallowing the gasps within his own. He felt Hawke’s free hand slide between them, the fingers wrap around his member, only managing small tugs in the tight space between their crushed bodies.

Fenris came first. There was a searing fire, similar to the lyrium that coursed within his body, striking like lightening running from his spine—near where Hawke was stroking—and his cock. He arched his back again, hissed with just a little pain as Hawke planted himself balls-deep, his lips drawing out of their kiss and his teeth clacking against Hawke’s teeth. Almost immediately he felt Hawke join him, his rhythm broken and turning mindless in the face of primal instincts.

And just as quickly it was over. They lay there, their boneless bodies slick with sweat and oil, one pair of hands still entwined. Hawke’s breath was hot and heavy on his chest, brushing across the hairless skin like a desert wind across the sands. Fenris’ fingers were stroking gently through Hawke’s hair, letting him know without words that he could continue to lay there, take his time recovering, there was no rush.

It wasn’t long, however, before Hawke did come out of his post-climax stupor. He braced his forehead against Fenris’ chest a moment, before pushing himself to his hands and knees, sliding out at the same time. Fenris keenly felt the looseness, the emptiness, the longing, but nothing showed on his features. He was intent on watching Hawke in the dimming firelight, wondering what would happen next.

Still no words were spoken. Hawke reluctantly let go of his hand, his expression tender, a sound thrumming against the back of his closed lips like an apology or an assurance. He crawled off the bed, leaving Fenris lying alone on the rumpled and warmed bedclothes. Hawke glanced around the room as he stood, hands on his hips and a determined expression making his lips press thin. He must have seen what he was looking for, and in the next moment walked purposefully over to the small dresser where Fenris kept a wash basin and some towels.

Fenris continued to watch him, but his main focus was inward, as per his habit, going over the past hour or so and evaluation his actions. He had just had sex for the first time in, well, years. And he had enjoyed it; the evidence was cooling across his abdomen. Yet there was something amiss, something off-center, something like an itch one can’t reach or the whine of an insect that kept one awake at night. He was so involved in tracking down this wayward impression that he barely registered when Hawke returned to the bed, damp towel in hand, and cleaned up the mess on his body.

He set aside his puzzlement and focused once more, out of curiosity, when Hawke laid back down on his side. Hawke’s fingers reached out, brushing his sweat-matted, white locks away from his face, his touch full of that tenderness that was so alien and so desired. He rolled onto his side to face him fully, an un-worded question written on his parted lips.

Hawke’s kiss was answer enough. He wasn’t finished yet for the night, a fact which hardly surprised Fenris. On several occasions as a slave, he had been used multiple times during an evening, often by multiple persons. He knew he could easily take another round, even after years of celibacy. And Hawke was a far more generous partner than anyone he had yet encountered. He almost felt guilty comparing Hawke to Danarius and his magisterial peers, but he truly had no other experience to go by.

This time was different, however, a fact that made his irritation return. He didn’t like not understanding what was happening or why, and Hawke’s behavior was not as before. He didn’t take charge this time; he didn’t loom over Fenris in a dominating manner. Hawke did touch him, teasing his nipples and trailing his fingernails lightly between two parallel markings traveling from his hips to his groin. Yet he didn’t go any further. It was like he was waiting for something, or wanted something that Fenris was supposed to give him…

That was it—he wanted Fenris to take charge. A tiny gasp accompanied this revelation, his eyes flickering questioningly between Hawke’s amber orbs, seeking confirmation. It was there in his moistened lips and timid posture. It was now Fenris’ turn.

Did he dare? Did he dare fuck a mage? Fasta vass, it was a forbidden temptation, a dream he had never dared to imagine, an act that would have gotten him killed, tortured to death, used for some Blood Magic ritual. Even now, after all the time and distance between his current identity and that slave-Fenris he used to be, he still felt the apprehension.

And that was what tipped the scales for him. His desire for freedom, to set aside the slave he used to be, to become a free man and leave the shackles behind him forever… Fucking a mage would be proof, however private and personal, that he had indeed achieved his freedom. And, damn it, Hawke was willing, his gestures continuing to be submissive, inviting, desirous.

Fenris tried not to think any longer. He knew what he wanted to do. Though one final thought occurred to him to take Hawke roughly, to fuck out the poison of slavery lingering within his veins with primal savagery, he pushed the urge aside. This wasn’t Danarius, the man who had tormented him, this was Hawke, the man who called him a friend. For the sake of that friendship—however personal and base any of his other motives might be—he would do to Hawke all those things he knew granted the highest pleasure, all those things he wished someone would have done to him.

With this notion forefront in his mind, he shifted their bodies until he hovered over Hawke.

His touch was expert, well acquainted with the male body, with which areas needed only a feather-weight of breath to be stimulated, and which required a little more pressure, or could be brought to the edge of painful. Hawke was a willing and enthusiastic partner, greedily taking every sensation, shamelessly offering honest responses. When Fenris’ lips lightly brushed the skin behind one ear, he sighed and shivered. When Fenris’ teeth tugged on a nipple, he moaned and grabbed a handful of hair. When Fenris’ dropped his head, when he brought his mouth out of the carefully trimmed chest hair to range lower, picking up the trail again at the navel and following it down, Hawke arched his back and gasped.

The area was freshly cleaned and smelling of soap, the curly mass of dark hair slightly damp from the water. Fenris paid it due attention, taking the shaft deep into his mouth, suppressing his gag reflex. Hawke bucked his hips and tried to fuck his face, the fingers of both hands entwining in his hair, desiring to hold him there but loose enough to let him escape if he needed. Fenris allowed him a few thrusts, until he felt the thickening head push one too many times against the back of his throat. Not wanting to tempt fate, he pulled away, Hawke’s fingers reluctantly letting go with a selfish little whimper of protest. He smiled, enjoying the feeling of power and control, of making Hawke dance to his tune, and knowing Hawke was enjoying the dance just as much.

Ensuring Hawke remained lying on his back, Fenris rotated his stance, crouching over him on his hands and knees, but with his face to Hawke’s crotch, and his member dangling above Hawke’s mouth. He returned to his teasing, dragging his teeth along the length, sucking harshly on the head, tonguing the slit at the very tip. Hawke tried to mimic his actions, match him tease for tease, but Fenris was too good at distracting him, and Hawke was already further along, far more aroused. He frequently had to break off to pant away his excess passion, not wanting to come so soon. Fenris kept careful track of his responses, letting him get close but not too close. At one point he stopped entirely and leaned up slightly, granting Hawke unrestricted access to his cock and balls and ass.

Whether it was Hawke’s efforts, or the heady feeling of control, Fenris quickly grew hard and excited. Sensing it was time, he moved away from Hawke’s mouth, his loins echoing the mewl of protest that tore from Hawke’s chest. Venhedis, but he would have loved to stay there, to hang above his face, to taunt and tease and keep himself just out of reach of the mage’s hungry mouth. But there were other things he wanted to do before they were done. He rotated around again, lining their bodies up, and reached for the vial.

One oil-slicked finger found Hawke’s hole, ringing it much as he had done, feeling his muscles flex as if sucking on the digit, as if trying to draw it inside. Now he understood why Hawke had laughed softly, the wanton display pleasurable if somewhat superficial. He allowed Hawke to draw him in, to control the penetration, to guide him into that tight and dark and secret place within. He moved slowly, carefully, as conscious of the pain he might be causing as Hawke had been to his. Though his fingers weren’t as thick as Hawke’s, they were long enough to reach. He found that small gland, the tip of his finger brushing it lightly at first before becoming firmer. When Hawke moaned and bucked, when his cock twitched and leaked, Fenris knew he had just the right amount of pressure.

He didn’t let up his inward ministrations nor his outward ministrations, pressing his lips against a nipple, mouthing a collarbone, holding his tongue against a throbbing pulse on a neck. All the while his finger continued relentlessly, massaging Hawke into a putty-like submission, keeping him dancing on that razor-thin edge of the precipice.

It wasn’t long until Hawke was struggling to keep from reaching that pinnacle of sensation, his hands fisting the bedclothes and his eyes screwed up tight. Fenris relented, pulling his finger out to give him a chance to catch his breath, before sliding back in with two fingers. He felt Hawke shudder beneath him, heard that catch in his chest that signaled it might have been a little too tight, a little too much, but not to the point where it detracted from the pleasure. Fenris found and rubbed that spot a few times, helping Hawke to accept the extra width, noting that his erection did not flag.

When a third finger joined the other two with a minimal of fuss, he knew it was time.

Fenris leaned back, having left wet trails from his lips and tongue all over Hawke’s torso. Hawke made to follow him or pull him back down, but he would have none of it. He put his free hand on Hawke’s chest, keeping him lying down, while his other oiled up his cock. When he was satisfied with the amount of lubrication, he took one of Hawke’s legs and lifted it up, cocking it over his shoulder.

He pushed in slowly, allowing only enough of himself inside to stretch open the initial ring of muscle. As expected Hawke tensed, though his expression held only a little pain, quickly drowned by the passion that had previously been building. Fenris waited, giving him the chance to become used to the intrusion, the chance to relax his muscles so he wouldn’t fight it. Fenris pushed in a little at a time, taking care to make sure there would be enough lubrication to keep any lingering pains or aches to a minimum.

With one knee bent over Fenris’ shoulder, Hawke’s legs were spread far apart, as was his ass, helping to open him fully. Fenris was able to lean back, angling his cock upwards, until he brushed against that sweet, lust-filled spot. With every gentle rock of his hips, Fenris stroked against it, going in and coming out, over and over and over…

Hawke suddenly gasped, shuddered, clutched at Fenris’ arms, and let out a small cry. The next heartbeat he climaxed, Fenris not having to stroke or even touch his cock, his come shooting out to coat his stomach. He clamped down on Fenris, not hard enough to hurt, but with that throbbing rhythm that told of heretofore unreached heights of pleasure. Fenris rode the waves of passion, allowed Hawke to set the pace, and spent himself inside that long tunnel of muscle.

* * *

 

Hawke was sure he had died, had died and reached some perfect area of the Fade, a place untainted by man, a place where the Maker still walked. He was relaxed and sated with just that hint of an ache that told of a night well spent. He smiled, large enough that his beard moved with the gesture, and opened his eyes.

The room was darker than he remembered. He reasoned the fire must have died a bit more since he last paid attention. He meant to reach out and find Fenris, bring the wonderfully talented elf into his arms, hold that slim and toned body against his side—mindful of the sensitive markings.

But his hand found empty bedclothes, already cool to the touch.

Concerned, he lifted his head, looking around, but he was indeed alone on the bed. He looked down at his stomach, but the mess was cleaned up and his skin dry. He must have passed out, he reasoned, after that second round, and Fenris had not only left the bed, but taken care of the aftermath of their lovemaking. He wondered how long he had been out, how completely relaxed he must have been, that he hadn’t noticed Fenris’ actions.

His eyes searched further, scanning the room, until they settled on that lithe body. Fenris was standing in front of the fire and a little to the side, his hands on the mantle and one leg slightly bent, staring into the flames. He didn’t seem to be aware that Hawke was awake, lost instead in one of his brown studies, his black brows drawn down and matching the corners of his mouth. The flickering light of the flames made the faint, bluish-white tattoos dance and waver across his skin.

Maker, but the man was an icon, his body perfectly formed and honed, with those long limbs and longer muscles. He stood naked before the fire, posed like a paragon, either at ease with his nudity or unaware he was being scrutinized. Briefly Hawke thought about asking Varric what it took to become a paragon, but reasoned there probably wasn’t any chance for an elf to make it into the Dwarven religion.

“I didn’t mean to pass out on you.” Hawke had tried to speak quietly, but the suddenness of the words was harsh. Yet Fenris didn’t seem to notice, neither giving a flicker of movement nor a twitch of an eyebrow.

“It… was a compliment,” Hawke tried again, “Or it was meant to be, at least.” He propped himself up on one elbow, tilting his head and staring at the statuesque elf. Fenris’ continued silence disturbed him, and he had to ask, “Fenris, are you alright? I didn’t… you’re not hurt, or anything, are you? After the sex? I know it can be uncomfortable, if you haven’t done it for a while.”

“What?” he finally seemed to notice Hawke was talking. He pulled his gaze from the fire to where Hawke was getting—cautiously—up from the bed. “Oh, no, Hawke… I’m… fine. You were fine. It was… fine…”

Hawke raised one eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

“No, no,” Fenris quickly tried to reassure him, perhaps too quickly, as he noticed Hawke’s eyebrow remained aloft. “Venhedis,” he sighed, “It’s… it’s hard to explain…”

“Just say it,” Hawke advised, lowering his eyebrow finally as he started walking towards him. “I told you earlier, I prefer being honest when it comes to sex.”

Fenris raised one shoulder in half a shrug, watching Hawke lean an elbow against the mantle, facing him. “If only I knew the words.”

Hawke stared at him a moment, before his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Oh, Maker, you’re straight, aren't you?”

If Fenris had ever felt like blushing, this would have been the time. He knew that he wasn't straight, that he enjoyed having sex with a man as much as with a woman; rather it was that he simply didn’t have any sort of deeper feelings for Hawke, not in that way. Yet looking into those warm amber eyes, he thought perhaps the lie would be easier than the truth. “I didn’t know, Hawke, I swear to you. I honestly… I’d never… Fasta vass!” As he feared, the hurt showed—however briefly—in Hawke’s eyes, but he couldn’t change his words now without sounding trite. He paced away, feeling his confusion and chagrin boil up inside him, and wanting to bleed off the energy before it turned violent. “I…” he came to a stop half a room away. It was easier, speaking to a chair than to Hawke’s face, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I consider you a… a friend… of a sort,” he finished, hoping he wasn’t being presumptuous. “I wanted this, but I had no idea that I would… that it would…”

Hawke had followed him on silent bare feet, so when his hand touched his shoulder Fenris spun around, startled. “It’s alright, Fenris, I understand. You’ve been free now for, what, three years? Four? And tonight was the first time you’ve slept with someone.”

Fenris nodded and offered a balm, daring to risk sharing a part of his past with this man—this mage. “I told you before, as a slave I never had the slightest control over my own person. I was used. There’s no other word for it. By both men and women. I acted the way they told me to act, wanted what they told me to want. If that makes any sense.” He tried to turn away, but Hawke’s hand on his shoulder was too warm, too gentle, for him to simply toss aside. “But I did want this, tonight. Not just because you wanted it; I wanted it. I wanted to… wanted to know… for myself.” He finally had the courage to look Hawke in the eye, and was amazed to find understanding there. Not pity, not anger, not betrayal, not deceit, not hurt, not a myriad of other emotions Hawke had every right to feel—but compassion and empathy. It gave him the strength to continue. “Don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy myself tonight. But… it’s not something I can put into words. It didn't feel…” his words trailed away again, and he made a disgusted noise at himself. “That’s not quite right. It was more than a feeling of being either right or wrong. Something like this isn’t right or wrong, it simply is or is not. And for me… it is not.”

Hawke smiled. Not with happiness, but with familiarity. How many times while growing up had he tried to like girls, thinking he was supposed to, but every time it simply was not him? “Now that is something I can understand, believe me! And don’t feel bad about tonight,” he continued, letting go of Fenris’ shoulder and stooping to pick up his clothing, “Whoever wins your heart someday, is going to be the luckiest woman in all of Thedas.”

Fenris stared at him, watching him get dressed in an effort to distract himself from thinking about Hrodwynn and how he’d already given her up. “You’re not upset?” he asked, fighting to stay on topic.

Hawke's smile deepened, flashing him those perfect white teeth, while he sat down to pull on his boots. Damn, it hurt to let him slip away, but he couldn't force him—or anyone—to love him. For Fenris' sake, he graciously gave up his pursuit. “Not at all. You are one fantastic fuck! In fact,” he pretended a frown, standing to stomp his feet into his boots, “You’re too good. Normally, after a night like tonight, I’d expect to have a limp in the morning that would tell everyone just how thoroughly I’d been fucked. But you were so good, I hardly feel a twinge. A little disappointing. I do so love those questioning looks on people’s faces, and the disgust on Carver’s,” he added with a little gleeful smirk, “As they try to figure out who fucked me. Not that I’d tell them, of course.” He winked.

Fenris felt more confused, and reassured, than ever. “Hawke, I…”

“Don’t mention it. Please, I’m serious, don’t mention it.”

“What do you mean?”

He frowned again, at a wrinkle on the back of his coat this time, as he explained. “What if word got out, that after a night spent with me, someone realized they were straight? Think of my reputation!”

Fenris was almost sure he was being teased—almost. Yet Hawke seemed serious as he shrugged into his coat. In thinking about it, he realized there were times when he’d seen Hawke with just that limp he’d described, and never once had he mentioned any of his other lovers. “So, are we friends?” He hated the hopeful tone of his voice, but he couldn’t help it.

Hawke nodded, his eyes as warm as the fire. “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Well, er, because of this, and it not working out, and…” His words trailed away, drowned out by Hawke’s laughter.

“Fenris, relax, everything’s alright. You weren’t my first one-night-stand, and Maker forbid you’re my last!” He leaned over and planted a very chaste kiss on his cheek. “Yes, we're friends. And you have other friends, Carver and Varric for starters. I’m sure there are more if you look for them. Like Isabela, perhaps?” He paused to give a knowing sort of laugh. “You know, she’s going to cut off your balls with one of those knives of hers when she finally figures out you don’t wear underpants.”

Fenris thought about the former pirate and their little game. Perhaps he would give her a try, just to see what she would do when she learned the truth. Her reaction would at the very least be invigorating, and quite possibly distracting enough to keep Hrodwynn out of his thoughts.

“You’re still coming with us on our little expedition into the Deep Roads next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, a little more in control now that things looked like they weren’t messed up.

“Good. There’s no one else I’d rather have watching my back.” Hawke stopped at the doorway to look at him, his amber eyes holding more meaning than his words.

“Nor you, mine,” he agreed, surprised that he could admit that he did trust a mage.

Hawke slapped the door frame, feeling the need to beat a hasty retreat before the angst over losing Fenris started to show. “Well, I should get going. Good night, Fenris. I’ll let myself out.”

Fenris didn’t follow him, but did listen to his footsteps tapping down the stairs, his light-hearted whistling echoing through the main hall, and the finality of the main door closing behind him. Hawke was a very singular man.

Cassia took that moment to stalk into the room, her tail flickering with her anger from earlier that evening, her eyes reproachful. Fenris exchanged a look with her, “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re no longer mad at me?” He uncovered a plate on which he had saved some of his steak for her. He set it on one side of the couch while he sat on the other side. She raised her nose, acknowledging the smell of the savory meat. In a graceful, fluid movement she leaped from the floor to the couch, gave him one final twitch of her tail, and turned her attention onto the meat.

Fenris sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter kind of skirted some sensitive issues. I should state that the opinions of the characters are their own, not mine. My opinions, should I ever wish to state them, will be shared here within these notes, not within the story by my characters. Got it? Cool.  
> One final note, I used the spelling ‘come’ instead of the more common ‘cum’ because, well, ‘cum’ is less formal and more vulgar. And the two were dealing with enough issues in this chapter, I didn’t want to muddy it further by using such base vernacular. *shrugs* There’s your vocabulary lesson for the day.


	11. Deep Roads and Deeper Pain (Part I)

Fenris leaned back against the wall, one leg cocked, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn low. He was brooding, not that he would admit it—didn’t have to with Varric around to point it out to everybody. Besides, right then he had more important matters to consider than that dwarf’s dry wit and charm.

Hrodwynn was coming with them to the Deep Roads.

Venhedis, this trip was going to be torture. He had thought the girl would be left behind, the expedition too dangerous. But it was precisely that threat of danger that made Hawke insist they have a healer with them. And since Anders was still too timid to leave his clinic, that left Hrodwynn. Even if Anders could have been convinced to join them, Varric had to put his two coppers in, mentioning to his brother how it had been Hrodwynn who had picked the Siggerdson a couple of months ago. Not knowing what kind of traps or locks or devices they would encounter down there, and Varric doubting his own skill while inflating hers, Bartrand had reluctantly agreed they might be able to use Hrodwynn. Her fate was sealed thanks to Bertrand's skinflint nature, when he realized that he was getting two specialists for the price of one, and that Hawke would be paying her wages out of his share.

Fasta vass!

His eyes lifted from the cobblestones to the girl in question, squatting on the ground, making some sort of last minute check of her supplies, trying to look busy and competent. The sunlight was splashing through her hair, setting the dark red locks aflame with every twitch and nervous glance. That she was scared he didn’t doubt—no one in their right mind wouldn’t be scared traveling into the Deep Roads where the darkspawn still lingered. All the more reason she should be left behind.

He suddenly noticed she was looking at him, her brow wrinkled with confusion. He watched her emerald eyes flash, wine-red lips part, but before she could say anything Carver stepped in between them. She looked away from Fenris to smile as he knelt beside her. He was making some sort of small talk to ease away her fears, to which she responded warmly.

Fenris pulled his gaze away, feeling the knife twisting in his heart.

Hrodwynn was thankful for Carver’s interruption. She didn’t understand why Fenris acted like he hated her so much. It wasn’t all that long ago that he held his hand out for her to take, shared his home and a little of his past, even followed and watched over her to make sure she got home safely. She’d tended his injuries—pulled his leggings off and set his leg, for Andraste’s sake! But now… every time she saw him looking at her…

She deliberately set him aside, returning Carver’s smile with genuine warmth. “All packed?” he asked, his fingers flickering to the satchel she was tying closed.

“Yes, I have been, I was just checking to see that everything’s secure. Wouldn’t want any bottles or vials to break if the pack was accidentally dropped. Several of these potions are so potent, even getting them on your skin might make you sick.”

He frowned while she stood up to hand the satchel over to the porters. “Then why take them? I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to take weaker potions, if these are so dangerous?”

She looked back at him and shook her head. “Not really. I don’t know what kind of danger we’ll find down there, what sort of herbs and potions I’ll need, so I had Anders distill a few really strong elixirs until they could fit into smaller vials. That way I can take more types of potions, but use less space. And if someone gets hurt, I just water down whatever potion is needed.”

“Makes sense,” he allowed, then smiled crookedly. “Good thing Isabela isn’t coming with us this trip. Remember at the mine, when she downed that whole bottle and got sotted and passed out? Think of what would happen if she downed one of these little vials?”

Hrodwynn shuddered. “Nothing good. Some of these are so strong, they could kill you.” When he looked like he didn’t believe her, she added, “I’ve got one vial in there, dark red, almost black, that relaxes the muscles—something to use when someone is in extreme pain. Three drops in a cup of water is all that’s needed. But if anyone downed the whole thing, well, it’d be very bad. Sure, all the pain would go away, but it would get you so relaxed, it would stop your heart.”

He stared at her, then at the pack, then back at her. “You’re joking, right? Having a bit of a laugh?”

She returned his look with sobriety. “Let’s just say, no one goes into this pack but me.” The mood was dark and getting darker, so she looked around for a change in topic. “Isabela decided not to come after all?”

“What?” Carver blinked, trying to catch up in the conversation. “Oh, ah, no, she declined. Said a lead came up on some other thing she’s been looking for.” He leaned in close to add softly, “Why? Worried about being the only woman on the expedition?”

“You arse,” she shoved playfully at his shoulder, and he pretended to reel away. “Aveline’s coming with us, isn't she!”

“Like I said, you’re the only woman…”

“Carver!”

He laughed, unrepentant.

“Merril isn’t here, either?”

It was hard for him to hide his grin, but he didn’t press her any more. “Nope. Dear old brother said something about her eagerness to use blood magic makes Fenris grouchy, and he’d rather have Fenris with us than Merril. Have to admit: for once I agree with him. I know you like her, but where we’re going, a strong arm and a sharp sword is going to do us more good than blood magic.”

Hrodwynn made a face but no comment. “So, it’s just us, then; everyone’s here who’s coming?” She looked around at their group, small enough considering what they were doing.

“Scared?” he asked, a little more gently. When she nervously bit her lower lip, he slipped his hands onto her shoulders. “Don’t be. There isn't a creature alive that can get past me, Fenris, and Aveline.” Briefly she thought about the dragon at the mine, but refrained from commenting, his efforts to make her feel better were endearing. “And besides, we’ve got Varric and my brother to back us up. Stay with them and you’ll be fine.”

“I know,” she nodded bravely, mostly just to get him to stop talking about it. “It’s just nerves. I’ll feel better once we get going.”

“I’ll feel better once were back in Kirkwall,” he quipped, pulling her in for a hug. Holding her there, feeling her arms wrap around him, feeling the rightness of the embrace, he had say something more. “I love you, Wynnie.”

Hrodwynn felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head. Her body was equally cold, frozen with shock, the words so unexpected, the tone so earnest. Somehow he must have sensed her less-than-favorable reaction, probably because she hadn’t repeated the words back to him, and pulled back far enough to see her face.

“I mean it. I’m not taking back those words. I love you.”

“Carver…” she finally found her voice, but he had the wind in his sails.

“I want us to be together. To get married. I know you’re young. I’m willing to wait, until we’re sure you’re old enough to get married, that is.”

“Carver.”

“After this expedition, I’ll have enough money, I can start my own business. Maybe buy a shop or a tavern. Maybe get some decent equipment and start a mercenary company. It’ll take a few years to get myself established, and by then you’ll be old enough and we can be married. See? It all works out.”

“Carver, I…” He waited this time, and though she finally got him to listen to her, she realized she didn’t know what to say. After a few heartbeats, he smiled and brushed her hair behind an ear.

“It’s alright, Wynnie. You don't have to say anything now. I’m just putting it out there, letting you know how I feel, letting you get used to the idea.”

He had such an eager expression on his face, like an enthusiastic puppy, that it made her want to say something—anything!—so she opened her mouth and let the words fall. “Carver, I don’t know if I want to get married.” Perhaps those weren't the most tactful words, but they were honest. Fortunately—or unfortunately—his expression didn’t change.

“You will, in a few years. It’ll give me time to make a name for myself, step out from under Garret’s shadow. Once I have my own life, my own livelihood, then I’ll be able to provide for you. For us. Maybe even for… children?”

Maker, but he had their whole lives planned for them. “Carver, wait, please. Slow down.” She set her hands on his chest, as if she could physically stop his mental machinations. “I don’t want to get married. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to get married. This… this thing we have, it’s good, right? It feels nice? You and me hanging out together, having a bit of fun now and then, that’s all I want. Let’s just stay this way, alright, and see where things go. If we want to do something more later, then we’ll do it.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” he nodded, seemingly not having heard a word she said. “We’ll wait before doing anything serious. But I want you to know,” he took her hands in his, “That I do love you. I’m doing all this for you. And one day, when you’re older, when we’re sure you’re old enough, I’ll show you just how much I love you.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes, the lustful look on his face leaving no doubt to what he was referring. “I’m old enough for that.”

“Maybe, but I want to be sure. I want to do right by you, Wynnie. I want everything perfect for you, for us. But I promise you,” he leaned in close, “One day I’m going to make you see… Ferelden.”

She blinked, as shocked by his sudden pulling away as she had been by his choice of words. Then Hawke’s sardonic drawl floated over her shoulder, “Ferelden?”

“Yes, I was just telling Wynnie about Lothering and everything back home, and she said she’d like to see it some day.”

“Ferelden?”

Hrodwynn affected a huff and turned to face Hawke, playing along with Carver. “Yes, Ferelden. Just because you don’t want to go back there, doesn’t mean Carver doesn’t want to go there. And he was talking about the trees and the lakes and…”

“Don’t forget the mountains,” he added.

“Right, the mountains. I said it sounded like a wonderful place. And he promised to take me there. Someday. He’ll have enough coin to do it after this expedition.”

Hawke sighed, already bored. “I’d think he’d do something more intelligent with his share, like invest in a business, not take a pleasure cruise. Still, it’s what I’ve come to expect.”

Carver started to say something, but bit down on the words when her foot kicked his shin. They watched Hawke meander away to speak with Varric and Bartrand, hopefully to start their journey.

“Why’d you kick me? I was going to tell that pompous arse of a brother…”

“What?” she hissed at him. “You were going to tell him what? That you’re planning to do just that, invest in a business? That would sound trite, repeating back to him what he had just said. Or did you want to tell him your grand plan to make enough coin so you can propose to me? You wanted to tell him that?”

He pouted, rubbing at his shin. “Well, no… not exactly… not yet anyway.”

“Or were you going to tell him we weren’t talking about Ferelden, but how thoroughly you’re going to fuck me someday?”

“Language!” he protested, though mildly. Then a funny little twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Though, from now on, every time I say I’m going to take you to see Ferelden, we both will know I really mean the other thing.”

She laughed, punching his shoulder playfully. “Carver!” She made a small gasp, looking past him, and added, “Your mother!”

“Don’t worry about her,” he shook his head, “She already likes you.”

“No, I mean, your mother is here. Look.”

He glanced over his shoulder to see where she was pointing. Leandra was standing there, looking like she wanted to talk with him but was too afraid to come closer. Hawke was already heading to her, his face full of care and concern. Carver made a different sort of face, but he knew he’d have to talk with her, too. “Bloody Void. I’ll be right back.”

Hrodwynn watched him go, a little apprehension in her stomach. Leandra looked upset, on the verge of tears, wringing her hands in front of her. They were far enough away that she couldn’t make out what was being said, but by the expressions on their faces—Leandra’s worry-wrinkled brow, Carver’s stubborn set to his shoulders, and Hawke’s exasperated wince—it couldn’t be anything good.

“Wynnie?” a voice called from behind her. She turned and immediately her face brightened.

“Anders!” She forgot about Hawke and his family, glad she had one more chance to tell her friend goodbye. She hugged him, tightly, burrowing her cheek into the fur of his mantle.

“What? Miss me already?” He didn’t mean the protest, his arms holding onto her tight enough to admit he was the one who missed her.

“No, I’m just glad you came to see us off.”

“I… ah… well,” he stuttered when she pulled away. Quickly he tried to school his features and said, “You forgot your lunch.” He handed over a small basket, the contents covered by a bright sunshine yellow scarf.

She gave him a crooked smile, letting him know she caught him in a lie, but graciously let him off the hook. “Thank you.”

“He’s a grown man, mother, let him make his own decisions!” Hawke’s voice carried across the square, causing everyone in the expedition to look over, and immediately try to look like they weren’t listening.

“So, ah, you packed lunch? You know I’m going to be gone longer than a day,” she tried to ignore the Hawke family.

“I’m going and that’s final!”

Anders glanced again as Carver turned his back on Leandra and stormed away to stand aloof, his face as dark as a thundercloud. “I, ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I do, but I saw the scarf and thought you might like it, you know, in case of rain or something.”

Hawke was trying to reassure his mother and get her to go home, at the same time trying to reassure Bartrand that this wasn’t going to be a problem.

“It doesn’t rain in the Deep Roads,” she said.

“It might rain on your way to the entrance, or on your way back. Just thought, well, I saw the color and thought of you.”

“Anders!” Hawke’s voice sounded forcefully cheery as he, too, turned away from Leandra. The woman didn’t leave as her sons bid, instead drifting to the edge of the square, seeming intent on spending every possible moment watching them before they left. “I thought you didn’t want to come. Have you changed your mind? I’m sure Bartrand won’t mind one more man joining us, not someone of your skill.”

“What? Oh, no, sorry, Hawke, I was…” he slipped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a little jostle, “Just saying goodbye to Wynnie here, making sure she had everything.”

“Oh,” his face fell, looking genuinely disappointed.

She wanted to scoff, unable to believe how transparent Hawke could be some days. Feeling awkward and looking for an excuse to slip away and say something reassuring to Leandra, she gestured with her basket. “I’ll, ah, go put this with my pack. Goodbye, Anders, and thanks again. See you in a couple of weeks.” She reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before she turned away.

“You really could come with, you know, if you wanted. We’ve supplies enough to last for months.”

“I couldn’t, Hawke, even if I wanted, my clinic…”

Their voices faded as she moved away. Hrodwynn did her best to ignore them, but while fidgeting with her pack, she couldn’t help but steal a glance. It was there, plainly obvious even if Anders didn’t see it: Hawke’s little touches and quick laughter, the warm smile, the solid eye contact. He was pursuing Anders, and the poor flustered bloke had no idea. She gave up trying to fit her basket into her pack, figuring she’d just have to carry it, and sighed as she stood up. All this time she thought Hawke was after Fenris.

As if thinking about the elf could conjure him, she saw his shadow fall across the street to join her shadow, the spiky armor distinctive. Remembering the dark look on his face from earlier, she decided to force a smile and say something nice to him, regardless of his current mood. The smile faded from her face, however, beneath the anger glowering in his eyes.

“Do you have any idea the danger you are in?”

It wasn’t quite what she thought he might say, nor did she think it was a reason for him to be so mad with her. She lifted her chin stubbornly, “If you mean going with into the Deep Roads…”

He broke over her words, as if frustrated she couldn’t understand what he so easily saw. “You’re still friends with that… abomination!” One gauntleted hand gestured behind them towards Anders, the fingers curved into talons.

Though she was too old for name-calling, she wasn’t too old not to retaliate when a friend came under attack. “He’s not…” she stopped as quickly and as heatedly as she started, realizing too late she was falling into his trap.

“Go on,” Fenris taunted, unwilling to let her slip away, “Tell me he’s not a freak. Tell me he’s not unnatural, willingly pairing himself with a demon, two beings trying to exist in one body.”

She pursed her lips for a moment while she thought of an answer that didn’t include profanity. When she could speak, she kept her voice low, not wanting to attract any attention. “Justice is a spirit, not a demon.”

“So he claims.”

“And Anders isn’t dangerous. He is a kind and thoughtful man,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “Gentle, likable if you’d give him the chance. He cares for people, which is why he runs his clinic, because so many people need him, people who can’t get to a healer because they’re poor or live in the wrong part of town or…” she stopped, shaking her head, knowing that arguing was pointless. It wasn’t like Fenris was going to change his mind, anyway. “You know what? I don’t care what you think about him; I know the truth. He’s a kind and gentle soul, and a lot better man than you are, standing there judging him when what you know about him could fit into a thimble. So, bugger off!” She spun on her heel and stalked away, so flustered with Fenris’ unreasonable hatred that she forgot entirely about talking with Leandra.

Fenris stared darkly at her retreating form; never had she spoken so harshly to him before. Quickly he reviewed his actions, trying to see if she might have had reason, but he could find no fault with himself. He could admit, watching her kiss Anders so tenderly had upset him, and he may have acted impulsively, his words harsher than he had intended. But she had been the one who so blindly accepted the… the… the demon. If only she would open her eyes and see the monster for what he truly was… Well, until she did, until she saw for herself the evil Anders was capable of, she would never believe him. He only hoped that by then he would still be able to save her, that it wouldn’t be too late.

He watched her tug agitatedly on the strap of her pack as she stood next to Carver, deliberately not looking at him. “Vishante kaffas!” he muttered heatedly under his breath.

* * *

“You sure she knows what she’s doing?”

In some part of her mind, Hrodwynn was aware of the others, standing behind her, grouped around like an audience—or an angry mob, considering the situation. Mostly, however, she ignored them, her main focus on the trap in front of her, the mechanism strangely alien while the concept eerily familiar. She slipped a slender wire into a small crevice and closed her eyes, relying on her sense of touch, on the vibrations running down the length of the wire into her fingers to tell her what was inside the trap.

“She’s the only chance we got. I sure can’t figure out these nasty pieces of shit.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take the chance that the movement of her chest might upset her arm, causing her fingers to twitch and the wire to make contact with something it shouldn’t, something unseen. There was a trigger, there was always a trigger, two pieces that made a connection that caused the reaction. Block the connection, stop the reaction. Just like the Glitterdust gas traps inside the Siggerdson. Keep the connection from forming, keep the incendiary from igniting, keep everyone alive.

But these traps were too old, too frail, the metal tempered by time and rust. Varric had already tried—and failed—twice to disarm the mines. Both times he had realized what was about to happen just in time to jump clear, but not without catching a little of the blast. The right arm of his coat was black with soot and nearly burned through in places. Half his face was covered with salve to cool the reddened skin while the healing potion did its work.

Still, he was better off than Aveline, who had unwittingly found the first of these traps. Though her armor had kept her from burning, it hadn’t prevented her from nearly being roasted alive. She stood the furthest back, unable to wear her armor until her chaffed and swollen flesh healed, and more than a little unsteady on her feet from the potent healing potion.

Sweat was beading on Hrodwynn’s forehead, threatening to spill into her eyes, but her eyes were closed. Her mind was open, however, open and alert and seeing every hidden little device inside the trap through her fingertips.

“How long’s this gonna take…”

“Varric?” Her voice was cool, distant, yet loud enough to be heard over Bartrand’s grumbling. “I need you to do something for me.” Carefully she pulled the wire out of the mine.

“Name it, Button, anything you want,” his deep voice readily agreed. He knew how hard it was to concentrate, to disarm a trap you’d never encountered before, to which you’d never even seen anything similar. He’d personally clear all the Deep Roads of rubble if she asked him. What she did ask, however, was almost as impossible.

“Move everyone back.” She set the wire down and opened her eyes, glaring at them over her shoulder. “I know you’re all anxious, believe me, I know, because I can hear you talking. And it’s distracting me. Which is bad. So, please, everyone, move back a ways.”

Varric laughed, letting go of some of his nervous tension. “Alright, you heard her. Back up, gents. Give the lady some air.” He placed himself between her and the others, spreading his arms wide and ushering them away.

“I’d rather stay, Wynnie…”

“No, Carver,” she wiped the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. “You, especially, are distracting me. More than Bartrand’s questions, even. Just…” she paused to give a heavy sigh, looking over her shoulder again to try to give him a smile. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing. Besides, if I make a mistake, if this does go off,” she turned back to pick up her wire and another tool, this one a long thin blade, “There’s no use everyone getting caught in the blast.”

Her reasoning, though sober and pessimistic, was also sound. Everyone moved away en masse, most of them walking backwards as if unwilling to take their eyes off of her, in case it might be the last time they see her. Carver stood as close as he could, next to Varric, and sought reassurance from the other rogue. “If something goes wrong, if the trap goes off, she won’t get hurt, not too bad, will she? I mean, she could jump clear, like you did, couldn’t she, if she triggered it by accident?”

Varric let out a heavy breath before motioning him a little bit further back and away from the others, dropping his voice so it wouldn’t carry. “I was still working on getting into the damn trap when I triggered it. Both times. I had a split second to see my mistake and try to get clear. Hrodwynn’s already gotten further than I ever did. I don’t think… well, let’s just say, if she makes a mistake, she’ll never know it.” He saw Carver’s expression turn more worried, and knew he shouldn’t have been honest with the kid. Quickly he tried to lift his spirits. “But hey, Junior, you’re forgetting one thing: that little lady is the only person who’s ever broken into a Siggerdson.”

Carver gave a strange sort of chuckle, or it might have been half a convulsion. “You know, I really do have no idea what that means, but for some strange reason it does make me feel better.”

Varric used his good hand to slap him on the shoulder. “There you go. Hold on to that good feeling. And just wait; everything will be alright.”

Hrodwynn was better able to ignore them this time, not feeling like everyone was pressuring her to get it right, not feeling like they’d all be caught in the blast and killed if she slipped. It was just her and the mechanism, as it should be. Her hands were steady as she slipped the thin blade around the sides of the small metal disc, loosening the lid. She had already checked; there was nothing holding the top of the device to the bottom, at least not along the edges. She should be able to lift them apart and see…

The blade came in contact with something, catching on it a moment before whatever it was gave way. She gasped, freezing her movements, not even daring to breathe, but nothing happened. After several longs seconds she was about to pull the blade back, but immediately thought better of it. Instead she pushed the thin wire inside, feeling along the blade.

“She’s very still,” Carver observed. “Why is she so still?”

“It’s delicate work, disarming a trap,” Varric answered. “It’s not like fighting. Takes a lot of muscle and a lot of movement to swing that greatsword of yours through a body. But it only takes a very light touch and a very small amount of movement to set off a trigger. Give her time. She’s got this.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt, but Carver thankfully didn’t notice.

That’s what had happened, she thought to herself. Her blade had hit the trigger, breaking through the corroded metal like it was parchment, taking its place. But that wasn’t the worst part; the device was already armed. All it needed was for the connection to be broken, not made, so if she removed the blade, the mine would go off. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath, “This is my best blade.”

She had two options: glue the blade in place before prying off the lid, or try to hold the blade in place while she jostled the two pieces apart. The first option was safer, but she was feeling mad and reckless and invincible.

She held the top of the mine and her blade in one hand, the bottom in the other, took a deep breath and…

To say she was amazed to find herself in one piece, and the mine in two pieces, would be the understatement of the year. She wanted to laugh, to cheer, to break into tears, but she was still holding a very volatile explosive device right in front of her chest. She could almost feel the others’ questions, too cowed to voice them after her earlier scolding, wondering what she was doing. She almost wondered herself, but she knew this might be her one chance to look inside and see how these things worked.

Once she satisfied her curiosity, she set the half with the strange dark powder on the ground, stood very slowly, and then as quickly as she could threw the other half away from her.

Several startled gasps and bitten off curses sounded from the others, but Hrodwynn was smiling, too relieved to be alive to care. As suspected, as soon as she let go, as soon as her blade fell away and broke the connection, a spark flared into life, bluish-white in the dark cavern, bright enough to smart her eyes. Had that spark come into contact with the strange powder from the other half of the mine, the explosion would have killed her. But instead the spark faded into the darkness, alone and unneeded, like a forgotten candle in an empty house.

“You stupid child!” Hawke shouted, gripping her shoulders and shaking her, the others rushing forwards as he had done. “You could have killed yourself! What were you thinking?”

She beamed at him, too elated over her success to give a fig about having scared the shit out of him or the others. “Careful, I’ve removed the spark, but there’s still the powder in the other half. That’s what makes the big boom.”

“Boom,” Sandal agreed, like an eery echo in the vast Deep Roads.

“That’s right, Sandal,” she shared her smile with him. “Boom.”

“I… I can’t… I simply cannot…” Hawke muttered and turned away, clutching at his chest.

“I think you gave him a fright,” Varric commented. Then he turned all business. “You know, you could’ve given me the chance to look at the insides of that thing, before you destroyed it.”

“No, sorry, Varric, I couldn’t,” she paced away, her head sweeping back and forth as she scanned the ground. “I sort of broke the trigger, with my blade, and knew as soon as my blade was removed, the damn thing was going to go off. I had to do something quickly.”

He nodded at her, “So these things are primed from the start? And breaking the connection sets them off?”

“Exactly,” she agreed, still searching. “There might have been something here at one point, perhaps a tripwire or a line to a pressure plate, that would have set off the device, but Maker knows how old these traps are. The outside stimulus is no longer attached, but the metal is so corroded, that even jostling the mechanism will set it off. That’s probably what happened to Aveline; she bumped it,” Hrodwynn stooped down to pick up her blade, a little singed but otherwise intact, “And it went boom.”

“Makes sense,” Varric agreed, ignoring Sandal’s enthusiastic echo.

“What the blazes are you two talking about?!” Bartrand nearly shouted, his nerves were so stressed. “Triggers! Pressure plates! Mechanisms! None of it makes any sense!”

Varric sighed, giving Hrodwynn a shrug as he tried to explain. “Let me put it in layman’s terms: these devices are already primed, so that they can set off as soon as their trigger is tripped. But they’re old, too old, and some can go off without their trigger, say, just by bumping into them. So if we see one of these things, we tell everyone else and steer clear of it, got it?”

Bartrand narrowed his eyes, hating the way his little brother talked down to him. In an effort to regain some of his status, he began bossing the porters around. “Alright, break’s over. Let’s pick up those packs and keep moving. You heard Varric: if you see one of these things, sing out! We don’t want to bump into any more of them.”

Hrodwynn resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and focused instead on packing up her lock picking tools. Hawke had calmed down, and came over to ask her, “What about the other half of the device, that strange powder?”

She blew out a deep breath, staring at the small pile. It truly didn’t look like much, but remembering Aveline’s armor being swallowed by an explosion, and the way the flames raced up Varric’s sleeve, she shook her head. “As much as I’d like to take it with us, find someone who can study it and tell us what it is made of, maybe give a sample to those Qunari and ask if it’s similar to their black powder…” She shook her head, making direct eye contact with Hawke. “I have no idea how to transport it safely. But we can’t leave it sitting there, either.”

He nodded agreement. “As reluctant as I am to miss this opportunity, you’re right. Move ahead with the others. I’ll stay back here, cast a flame spell at it when we’re out of range.”

She didn’t waste time, scampering after the others as fast as she could until she was at Carver’s side. When the explosion sounded, everyone else turned around, wondering what had happened. Hrodwynn looked too, and had to admit feeling a little relieved to see Hawke emerge from the smoke billowing in the tunnel behind them, swinging his staff back into place across his shoulders, his hair mussed even further by the force of the explosion, his coat fluttering with his nonchalant steps.

The melodramatic arse.

* * *

Hrodwynn leaned back from the latch, a self-satisfied little grin tugging at one corner of her mouth. “There you go. One locked door, unlocked.” To prove her point, she turned the latch herself—she’d been the one who picked it, after all—and couldn’t resist a peek inside.

“That’ll do, girl,” Bartrand’s voice brooked no argument. “Back to camp with you. If there are any more locks inside my brother can’t handle, we’ll send for you.”

Hrodwynn pulled her gaze away from the opened door as the others began going inside. Varric paused at her side, his voice sympathetic, “Ah, Button, don’t look so down. Tell you what: first chest I see, I’ll break all my picks so you have to come with us.”

She smiled for him, and bent over to peck his cheek. “Thanks, Varric, but those picks of yours are expensive. Just pretend you’re stumped.”

“Can’t do that too many times; Bartrand might catch on,” he winked, and she began to wonder if he truly had been stumped by this door, or he had wanted her to feel included. He slipped inside after the others before she could ask.

“What, no kiss for me?”

She turned around to see Carver bringing up the rear of the group. “Of course I have a kiss for you.” She stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and plant a fairly chaste kiss on his lips. He had other intentions, his hands gripping her waist, biceps flexing as he lifted her off her feet. She laughed at the giddy feeling, but he quickly cut her off with a far less chaste kiss, his lips sealing against hers, his tongue moving past her teeth and opening her mouth to him. A small noise sounded in the back of her throat, but she made no effort to protest his invasion.

When he broke away, when he set her back onto her feet, she wavered a moment before she regained her balance. “That’s for Ferelden,” he said, his voice low but full of emotion.

“Oh, ah,” she panted, having almost caught her breath, “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Carver!” Hawke’s voice called out to them, “Are you coming or not?”

He made a face and looked like he was about to retort when Hrodwynn’s fingers touched his lips. “Don’t, you’ll only make it worse. Go on, find your fortune; I’ll be here when you get back. And so will Ferelden.”

He nodded, pursing his lips against her fingertips before letting go. She watched him cross the threshold and reach the others, standing around some sort of pedestal, before she turned to make her way back to camp.

She was whistling by the time she reached Bodahn and the others, her mood as light as her skipping steps. She smiled at the porters setting up camp, ruffled Sandal’s hair when he lifted up a rune he was working on, and gave an appreciative sniff to the supper Bodahn was preparing.

“You’re rather chipper this evening, Mistress Hrodwynn.”

“I keep telling you,” she said playfully in an overly dramatic voice, “I’m not a ‘mistress;’ I work for a living. And, yes, yes I am rather chipper.”

“Something to do with a certain young man…?” he prompted.

Her cheeks blushed a furious red, which only made him laugh.

“What ’cher cooking? Enchantment soup?” she asked, trying to change the subject so her face could cool down.

Bodahn laughed again, “No, that’s Sandal’s specialty.” He leaned in to whisper, “And we’ll let him have it, won’t we.” He finished in a louder voice, “No, tonight is fish stew. Just finishing the potatoes now; I’ll add the dried fish right before everyone comes back, so it doesn’t get overcooked.”

She made a face. “Bet you a silver Fenris won’t touch it, no matter how good it smells.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. One thing I’ve learned on this trip, is not to make a bet with you.”

This time she laughed, picking up a hard roll and picking at it. “You’re smart, Bodahn, I like you.”

“I like you too, Mistress Hrodwynn. So does Sandal. You’re one of the few people who treat him, well, like a person.”

“He is a person,” she countered, somewhat confused.

“I didn’t mean it like that, but, well, never mind. Looks like the boss is returning.”

Bartrand was indeed coming back to them, a little too soon in Hrodwynn’s opinion, considering there was a whole thaig to plunder. Yet he wasn’t empty-handed. He carried one statue with him, the one she had seen on the pedestal everyone had been standing around. “Back so soon, boss?” one of the porters called out.

“What?” Bartrand blinked at them, like he had forgotten they would be there at camp. “Oh, yes, I am.”

“Where are the others?” Hrodwynn asked, looking the way he had come, unable to see the entrance to the thaig around a bend in the tunnel.

“They’re… ah… they’re searching the rest of the rooms, gathering all the treasure in one place, so we can pack it up in the morning.”

“Do they need any help,” another of the porters asked.

“What?” Bartrand seemed alarmed, but quickly schooled his features. “Oh, no, no, they’ve got everything under control. No need to bother them. Just, ah, finish your supper, continue with what you’re doing. They’ll be along later.”

“How much later?” Bodahn pressed, though he did begin adding the dried fish. “This stew won’t keep all night.”

“Oh, well,” Bartrand hedged, “It’ll, ah, probably take half the night for them to make sure they haven’t overlooked anything. Far too long to wait up for them. Why don’t you all go to bed, soon as you’ve eaten supper? That way you’ll be rested come morning, when it’ll be time to pack up the treasure. I’ll stay up, take the first watch, keep their supper warm for them.”

Hrodwynn felt uneasy, not liking the way he was acting. Yet she had no reason to doubt him; the thaig showed every evidence of not having been open for ages—undoubtedly since it had been made—so the treasure inside wouldn't have been plundered by others. It could easily take hours for them to collect it all. She gave in without any more protest, ate her fish stew, and retired to the tent she shared with Aveline.

Sandal was the one who woke Hrodwynn in the morning, an unusual expression on his face. “The stew got cold.”

“What?” she rubbed at the sleep clinging to her eyes, not sure what he meant. “Oh, good morning, Sandal. Sleep well?”

“Not well. Bad. Bad boom. Big bad-a-boom.”

Her brow creased, his words not making sense, even for Sandal. “Wait, Sandal, where’s Bodahn? Where’s your father?”

“He said to come wake you. The stew got cold.”

“The stew got cold?” she repeated, throwing off the blanket. She slept in her clothes, not that she didn’t trust the men to leave her alone, but last night she felt uneasy, and with Aveline not there… She couldn’t explain it, but she had wanted to be ready to get up in a hurry. Like now. She grabbed her boots and stood up, shooing Sandal in front of her out of the tent, hopping as she tried not to step on every sharp stone between her and the campfire. “Bodahn?”

“Over here, Mistress,” he answered, standing with the porters around the cold fire pit, and colder stew. The cooking pot was a mess, the stew congealed into an unappetizing grey goop. She cleared her throat and, standing with the others while trying to put on her boots, waited for someone to explain what the fuck was going on.

“Boss is gone,” one of the porters said.

“The others never came back,” another added.

“The stew got cold,” Sandal added his part

“Mistress Hrodwynn,” Bodahn ignored the rest, focusing on her, turning to her for guidance. Quickly he summed up the situation. “Master Bartrand is gone. His bed hasn't been slept in. And that statue he was carrying last night is gone, too. I don’t know when he left us, or if he was taken from us, but it must have happened shortly after we all went to bed, as the fire had been left to die.”

“What about the others?” she asked, stamping her feet to settle them in her boots, “Hawke and Fenris and Carver and…”

“They’re not here,” Bodahn shrugged. “Beds not slept in. Stew not eaten. No sign of their weapons or any treasure or, well, anything. What’s happening, Mistress? What should we do?”

Everyone looked at her, thanks to Bodahn electing her to the position of leader. “Ah, well,” she cleared her throat, looking around to keep from staring at the jellied stew. “First things first, let’s not panic. There’s a reasonable explanation for what happened; we just don’t know it yet. Could be that Bartrand went back to the thaig, thinking to bring that statue back to the rest of the treasure, and got sidetracked. Maybe the others got sidetracked, too, inside the thaig. We simply don’t know.”

“So, what do we do?” one of the porters repeated Bodahn’s question.

“We find out what happened?” she answered, her tone stating that it should have been obvious. “We know the others are in the thaig, right? You two,” she pointed to a couple of porters, “Go to the thaig, find the others, tell them Bartrand’s missing, ask if he’s with them. You,” she pointed to a third porter, “Come with me. We’ll look around the tunnel and see if we can find any evidence of Bartrand maybe, I don’t know, wandering off during the night or something.” She really didn’t want to think about him being abducted by darkspawn, but they had come across the monsters already on this trip. It didn’t sound right, that they’d come and steal Bartrand away, and not the rest of them. Still, it gave her something to do, to look for any sign of where he might have gone. “Bodahn, you and Sandal stay here at the camp, in case he comes back, or any of the others. We’ll all meet back here in a half an hour, got it?”

She kept her confidence bolstered for everyone else’s sake, but inside she was quivering as much as the gelatinous stew.

She felt even worse by the time they all regrouped. “Bartrand’s gone,” she said flatly, throwing a ragged piece of cloth onto the ground in front of them all. It was a distinctive pattern, easily recognizable as having been torn off of Bartrand’s tunic. “We found this, about half a mile down the road leading back to Kirkwall. What did Hawke say?” she asked, trying hard not to think about what this could mean.

“We couldn’t reach him,” one of the porters stated. “The door to the thaig is closed, locked again. Hawke and the rest must be trapped inside it.”

Her mouth took a hard, grim line as she weighed their options. “Alright. Fine. If the others got locked inside the thaig by accident and Bartrand panicked, or whatever, it doesn’t matter; I picked that lock once, I can do it again. Come on! Let’s open that door and find the others. Then we’ll hunt down Bartrand and find out what the crazy son of a bitch was thinking!”

She scooped up the slim leather case that held her tools and headed for the thaig. The door was closed as the porter had claimed, but she easily unlocked it now that she knew what to do. She didn’t even bother putting her tools away before she shoved open the heavy portal.

And found an empty chamber. “Hawke!” she called out, her voice reverberating through the room and into a door standing ajar against the far wall.

“Where are they?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, probably that way,” she pointed at the open doorway. She stepped into the room, turning to look at the main door. “Son of a bitch,” she swore, “There’s no latch, no way to grip the door and open it from this side. No wonder the others couldn’t get out, if the door closed and locked itself behind them.”

“Or was purposely closed behind them,” muttered a porter.

“What do we do now? Go after them? What if the door closes again, while we’re all in here? We won’t be able to go back.”

“Just like Hawke. He was in here. Bartrand must’ve closed them in here on purpose. Remember, he told us all that they were supposed to be collecting the treasure for us to pack up in the morning, but there’s no treasure here. He lied to us! He lied to everyone! He took that one statue, all that was in here, and left the rest of us to die!”

“Enough!” Hrodwynn broke over the porters’ angry and scared and nervous words. “Like I said earlier, it doesn’t matter. The door’s open, Hawke and the others will be able to come back. Then we’ll track down Bartrand and…”

“You mean we’re just supposed to sit around at the campsite with our thumbs up our arses, waiting either for Hawke to come and find us, or for darkspawn to attack? No way! I’m out of here. I’ll make a break for the surface on my own before I wait around to be killed.”

The porters fell into an argument again, and Bodahn took the opportunity to speak with her quietly. “I know it’s hard on you, lass, but you have to take charge. These men won’t follow me, not another dwarf, not after it looks like Bartrand’s betrayed us. And Hawke isn’t here; who knows if we’ll ever see him again. That leaves you. So, make a decision. Do we follow after Hawke and the others, hoping to catch up with them and that there’s another way out of the thaig? Or do we sit tight and leave the door open, hoping they’ll double back to check on the door, thinking that we would come looking for them?”

She wanted to follow Hawke, but she knew the porters would never agree to that. “Listen. Hey! Everyone! Listen. We’re not in danger, not right now, so no one panic. Alright?”

“Easy for you to say,” an anonymous voice muttered.

“No,” she disagreed, “No, it’s not easy for me. None of this is easy, for me, for you, for Hawke. We’re in a right pickle here, but fighting and yelling at each other isn’t going to do any of us any good.”

“What should we do?” one asked.

“We, ah, we wait…” her words trailed away, a strange sound coming from the darkened doorway across the room. For one unbelievably euphoric moment she hoped it was Hawke and the others, even though she knew they’d never make noises like that. Coughing, scratching, growling sounds poured from the opening. “Bloody shite,” she muttered, the decision of what to do being made for her. “Everybody! Through the door! Get out! Now! Get out!”

She turned and grabbed Sandal, making sure he made it through before her. When she was sure everyone was outside, she turned back to grab the door and yank it closed. Just in time, too, as darkspawn began scrambling through the other door. She and a porter pulled the heavy door shut before the darkspawn could get near them, the latch clicking tight, locking itself automatically.

They all stood around looking at each other, panting in a cold sweat, their hands on their knees. “Now what do we do?” Bodahn asked, again looking to Hrodwynn for an answer.

She was really beginning to hate being in charge. Damn Bartrand! Damn Hawke! Damn… well… the fucking darkspawn! She swallowed her fear, reached down to pick up her tools, and began repacking them carefully. They couldn’t stay where they were, like sitting ducks, waiting for the darkspawn to find another way out of the thaig and attack them, or for another group to find them. Neither could they go after Hawke; he and Carver and the rest were on their own—there was nothing she could do for them.

She looked over her shoulder at the main door, her heart breaking, but she truly had no other choice. “We pack up…” she had to pause and clear her throat. “We pack up and head for Kirkwall. Hopefully, Hawke will find another way out of the thaig.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, pissy that I left it on a cliffhanger? If you’ve read my other stuff, you know I never post the first part of a cliffhanger without having the conclusion already written. It’ll be out in a day or two. Trust me. *evil grin*


	12. Deep Roads and Deeper Pain (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised *flourishes a little bow*  
> And on a side note, I kind of changed the dynamics of how Sandal’s rune stones work. It made sense to use them this way, at least in this part of the story. *shrugs* Call it creative license, again ;)  
> Lastly, the lines in italics marked with * are excerpts from the Chant of Light: Canticle of Trials, from Dragon Age: The Calling, written by David Gaider

“Is it just me,” Varric’s voice sounded quiet in the large cavern, “Or does this part of the Deep Roads look familiar?”

“It is,” Hawke answered with assurance. “I recognize a spot over there, where we made camp one night. I remember finding Carver and Hrodwynn snogging behind that pile of rubble.”

“We weren’t… we…” Carver made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, giving up trying to deny it. No one would believe him anyway. He ignored the headache pounding between his temples and said, “Never mind. You’re just jealous because Isabela and her attachment didn’t come with us this trip.”

“What?” Hawke feigned innocence.

“Oh, bullocks, I saw the way you were limping the other week, and the smirk on her face. The two of you… ugh… I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up,” Hawke quipped. He wanted to ram his fist into his little brother’s mouth, but he couldn’t. Neither could he deny it had been Isabela who’d given him the limp. Truthfully, he had felt no reason to limp after that wonderful night, and it had been Fenris and not Isabela whom he had spent it with, but he wasn’t one who boasted of his sexual conquests. Letting Carver think Isabela had done him over was far more entertaining than the truth.

Regardless, he refused to make eye contact with Fenris.

“Which way now? Go back to Kirkwall, or forwards to the thaig?”

“The thaig,” Carver answered Aveline’s question. “We’ve got to find Wynnie. And the others,” he added as an afterthought. Damn, but the headache was making it hard to think. And breathe, the pain seeming to choke the air in his lungs.

“I don’t think they stayed by the thaig,” Fenris nodded towards the abandoned campsite. There were fresh ashes in the pit, no more than a day or two old. “Looks like someone came back through here, at any rate.”

“How do we know it was Wynnie and the others,” Carver pressed, his voice getting hoarse. “Might’ve been Bartrand who made that fire.”

“Not unless he’s taken to wearing scarves,” Fenris countered, picking up a handful of bright yellow fabric.

“Wynnie’s scarf!” Carver cried, coming up to take the item from Fenris’ hands. Lovingly he ran it through his fingers, examining it in the dim light, his face filling with hope and joy. “It’s hers, alright. And she had it at the thaig; I remember seeing it knotted around her throat when she was picking the lock. So she must've come back this way.”

“Which means she’s making for Kirkwall. Smart girl,” Hawke reasoned, nodding approvingly.

“It means she abandoned us!” Fenris growled, the idea that she could betray them like a blade through his heart.

“She didn’t abandon us!” Carver stepped up into his face, his headache forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“Easy, Junior,” Varric tried to push the two back from each other, a near impossible task but one he knew he had to at least try. “You too, elf. Think about it for a moment. Bartrand betrayed us—me! His own brother! Do you think he’d tell the others the truth? No, he betrayed them, too. Which would leave Hrodwynn with few if any choices. She couldn’t come after us; no telling what she might find inside the thaig, or even if there was another way out, or if she’d ever find us. So she had to leave us to our fate, and focus on getting everyone else back to Kirkwall.” He looked back up at Fenris. “She made the right decision.”

The elf glared darkly at Carver a moment longer before reluctantly backing down half a step.

“Let’s get going,” Hawke gestured in the direction that would lead them to Kirkwall. “The sooner we meet up with the others, the better. I know I for one could use a bit of Hrodwynn’s tender loving care; one of those shades managed to tag the back of my leg. And you, Fenris, took that nasty blow under your arm.”

“It’s only a bruise.”

“I doubt that very much. If I’m not mistaken, by the stiff way you hold your side and the careful way you breathe, your ribs are at least cracked, if not broken. Carver, too, has that slice in his arm starting to look infected. So, if you two are done arguing, perhaps we could move along.”

Fenris didn’t speak again, not trusting himself to be civil, his thoughts too dark ever since they’d been locked inside the thaig. It seemed betrayal was everywhere, whether human or dwarf, mage or merchant, people wanted to screw him over. Even though his pack was just as heavy as everyone else’s, brimming with the treasure they’d found exploring the thaig for another way out, the riches had come at too high a price. He picked up the pack, unable to sling it over his shoulder as Hawke was right—several ribs were at least cracked—and trudged behind the others.

A few hours hiking and they stopped again, but this time for different reasons. There were sounds drifting down the massive roadway to their ears, sounds of a battle and screams of the dying. The five of them looked at each other, Hawke and Carver and Varric and Fenris and Aveline. As one they dropped their packs and unsheathed their weapons, the treasure meaning little if they died because they were too encumbered to fight, and charged forward.

Up ahead, ensconced behind a makeshift wall of rubble and surrounded by darkspawn, Hawke and the others were the furthest thing from Hrodwynn’s mind. She held a bow, quiver at her side, firing arrows as fast as she could draw. She was more proficient with her knives, but she didn’t want to leave the dubious safety of their little encampment. So she stayed with the others, firing arrows, the darkspawn too thick to miss. “Sandal!” she cried, not daring to turn around to look.

“He’s almost ready, Mistress,” Bodahn answered for him. At the first sign of darkspawn, Hrodwynn had set the boy the task of making as many runes and enchantments as possible. Bodahn stayed next to him, offering encouragement and trying to keep Sandal from panicking. “What? Oh, it’s finished? Good lad. What does it do?”

“Boom!” Sandal answered, handing it to Hrodwynn.

“Thank you, Sandal,” she said, but made no movement to take the rune. “I can’t use it right now, but…”

“Boom!” he repeated. When she still looked like she still wasn’t going to take it, he used it himself. He tossed it out in front of a charging group of darkspawn, took her shoulders to turn her aimed arrow towards it and insisted, “Boom!”

She gave him a shocked look, but he seemed so earnest, so sincere, she gave in and aimed at the stone. Besides, he threw it far enough away she couldn’t have retrieved the stone before the darkspawn reached it. She tried to remember what Varric had told her, about pausing halfway through exhaling, not taking too long to aim so her arm wouldn’t tire, and…

The arrow flew, slipping from her fingertips, propelled by the taut string, and striking the rune stone just as the darkspawn reached it.

Boom was an understatement. An explosion occurred, more forceful than those ancient traps scattered around the roads, though without any fire. The darkspawn were still thrown back, knocked off their feet and slammed through the air, several of them struck so hard by the explosion that blood ran from their ears. Those darkspawn did not get up again.

Hrodwynn smiled, wanting to laugh, knowing she didn’t have the time. “Sandal, you can make as many of those Boom-runes as you want!” Impulsively she kissed his cheek before she had to turn away and fire at another group of approaching darkspawn.

Sandal blushed from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Come on, lad, leave her to it. You’ve got more runes to craft.”

There was a scream behind her, and she knew another of the porters had fallen. She didn’t dare look—couldn’t—there was too much right in front of her to hold her attention. She knew, Maker have mercy, that they were all going to die down here, but she wasn’t about to give up without a fight! She lifted another arrow to the string, pulled back, and had to check herself.

A mop of white hair, lanky and unruly like the elf it belonged to, emerged from within the mass of enemies. “Fenris!” she unthinkingly cried out, relief swamping through her like a flood tide. She cast her eyes about, searching, hoping, praying the others were there, too. To his left she saw a flash of orange-red hair which could only belong to Aveline. A little further on she saw a bolt of lightening splinter several darkspawn to shreds, Hawke emerging from the smoking chaos and back-swinging the mace end of his staff into another coming up behind him. She looked further, needing to see them all, that they all were together again, knowing everything would be alright now…

Just as she found Carver, something hit her from behind and she fell to the ground.

Fenris had heard her. He’d heard Hrodwynn’s first cry, wanted to tell himself it was his name on her lips, but the din of battle had been too loud to hear clearly, and he wouldn’t delude himself. He strode into the fray, swinging his greatsword back and forth like a scythe, reaping the darkspawn on either side of him. He tried to head for the little fortification where she and the others were making their last stand, tried to reach them in time, but he knew he’d never make it. Even as he lopped off limbs and heads, even as he swung with all his might, ignoring the pain of sharp and jagged ends of broken ribs as they rubbed against each other, he kept track of what was happening to her and the others.

The last porter fell. A darkspawn leaped over the barrier. Sandal pushed Bodahn out of the way. The darkspawn took Hrodwynn from behind…

And the name on her lips, the one she cried out as she fell—he was close enough now to hear her clearly—had been, “Carver!”

Rage overtook him. Rage and ire and heat. He roared a challenge, the lyrium seeming to glow brighter than normal in the dark tunnel. He dropped his greatsword, choosing to phase through the horde between him and Hrodwynn, his gauntleted fists moving like claws, raking through bodies, tearing out organs and brains and muscle and sinew and bones, spilling blood and gore across the dry and dusty road. He left a wide trail through the horde, as wide as his arms could reach, but it wasn’t enough, the evil creatures turning towards him and his challenge. Then he sensed more than saw Hawke bringing up the rear, his magic reaching further than his fists, driving the creatures back. Yet all his focus was before him, on that bright spot where Hrodwynn had stood, before the darkness swallowed her spark.

At last he reached the impromptu fort, using his ability to walk through the stones, to aid those inside. Sandal and Bodahn were cowering beneath an overturned cart, Bodahn wagging a spear at the nearest darkspawn, Sandal throwing stones. There were bodies around them, darkspawn and human, though none of them were Hrodwynn. She was struggling in the center of the camp, a darkspawn all over her, jaws snapping at her face. She held it back with her bow, using it like a staff, choking its neck, but she was already tiring. It wouldn’t be long before the creature either broke the bow, or overpowered her young muscles.

Hrodwynn wanted to cry, her face screwed up from her efforts to continue, to keep the creature from tearing off her head, but it was too heavy, and her arms were already shaking.

Then he was there, his markings shining whiter than his hair, his eyebrows blacker than death, his teeth bared in a feral snarl of rage. The darkspawn over her jerked, its limbs immediately going lax, as Fenris ripped out its spine. She sobbed once with relief, her trembling arms finally giving up and allowing the dead creature to fall across her.

She must have fainted. One moment it was Fenris hovering above her, reaching out to lift the darkspawn off of her. The next moment Hawke was there, kneeling over her as he blasted bolts of lightening from his staff. She blinked, made to sit up, but he took notice of her movement and stopped her with a knee to her chest. “Stay down! You’ll only get in the way!” He blasted a few more times before he managed in a milder tone, “It’ll be alright, Hrodwynn. We’re here.”

She didn’t argue, quite content to let someone else do the fighting. She did take the opportunity to look at Hawke’s leg, the hastily wrapped bandage, the blood dripping down into his boot. She tried to peek underneath the strip of fabric, only to get the back of her hand rapped by his staff. “Leave it. Wait until we’re done.”

Despite being in the middle of a fight, despite her exhaustion and relief, she simply had to snark, “Looks like you grappled with a dragon again.”

He paused, looked around and must have decided they were clear enough at preset. He glanced down at her and flashed his most charming smile. “I got that from a shade, though you are right about one thing—we did enjoy a quick tumble.” She laughed, weak but genuine, and he winked at her before returning his attention to the last of the fight.

It wasn’t much longer before he paused again, looked around the area, nodded, and took his knee off her chest. Using his staff to brace himself, he stood up carefully, mindful of his leg, and reached out a hand to help her to her feet. “Aveline can handle the last two. I think, my dear, we have won. Are you hurt? If you’re even so much as scratched, Carver’s going to have a fit!”

She shook her head for an answer as she looked around them, trying to get her bearings. Holding tightly to his arm, she attempted to see through the carnage, to make sense of the heedless attack and death. But all around her was chaos. Corpses were piled on top of corpses, blood and gore oozed across the road, and a wretched stench hung in the air. Her eyes searched further, desperately taking note of everyone left living, of Aveline lopping off the head of the last darkspawn, of Varric slinging his crossbow over his shoulder, of Bodahn and Sandal coming out from the overturned cart.

Her scan continued to where, just beyond them, lay the bodies of the porters, torn limb from limb. “They didn’t know how to fight,” she sighed, staring sadly at what was left of them. “They were hired to carry crates, not weapons.”

Hawke heard her small voice, but the only way he could think of to help her was to get them all out of there before any more darkspawn attacked. “Come on. We should be moving. It isn’t a good idea to hang around dead bodies, remember? Especially in the Deep Roads. Where’s your pack?”

“What?” she asked, a little dazedly. “Oh, right, you’ll be needing healing, once we find a place to rest for the night. Are any of the others hurt, too?” She searched within the small camp, trying her best to ignore the bodies. She had work to do; like she and Varric once talked about, don’t think about the mess, focus on the task at hand. But it was hard to ignore the mess when it coated every surface of the area an inch thick!

“Here you are, Mistress,” Bodahn came up to her, Sandal tagging along and holding her pack. He shyly lifted it up towards her. “All your potions and salves, all intact. Sandal kept them safe for you.”

She brought her eyes up from the bodies to look at the simple yet enigmatic dwarf. He was bouncing from foot to foot, his hands gripping each other tightly, his expression hopeful. “Enchantment?”

It was a nice distraction, focusing on what was alive, what was good, rather than what was dead. She smiled, already feeling better, and said, “Thank you, Sandal, your enchantments saved our lives.”

As he had obviously been hoping, she kissed his cheek again, making him blush.

“Should I be jealous?”

Hrodwynn turned to see Carver walking up to them, Varric and Fenris at his sides, overstuffed packs in their hands. “Carver!” she cried, rushing into his arms. He dropped the two packs he carried in favor of holding her youthful and much softer form. She shook, trembling like a candle flame in a spring breeze, her hands locked around his shoulders. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

She had jumped into his arms with a force he hadn’t been expecting, nearly sending him staggering backwards. He winced, his head pounding, his throat scratchy, his stomach in knots, the cut on his arm feeling like it was on fire… but he didn’t push her away. If anything he held her tighter, “I feared the same.”

“You found my scarf,” she pulled back a little and sniffed, giving the fabric around his neck a gentle tug. “I left it behind, at last night’s camp, thinking if you got out of the thaig, you might be looking for us, and I wanted you to know we were heading back to Kirkwall…”

“That’s what we figured,” he tried to stem the flow of words babbling from her lips.

“I didn’t want to leave you, but when we found the door locked, and no sign of you, and then darkspawn came pouring out of the tunnel, we couldn't stay there, we had to leave you…”

“Shh,” he pressed her face to his chest, finally silencing her, as much to ease the sharp pains slicing into his temples as it was to lend her comfort.

“We shouldn’t linger, Hawke,” Aveline reminded them all as she came striding up, wiping the last of the darkspawn gore from her blade. “Death attracts death. The more distance we can put between us and this place before we stop for the night, the better.” She slid the cleaned blade home into its sheath with a sharp and determined sound.

“Couldn’t agree more, my dear Guard Captain. You’re the least injured; would you mind scouting ahead, pick out someplace defendable for the night?”

Aveline nodded, taking orders as effortlessly as she gave them. She immediately turned to lope ahead down the road, and was soon swallowed by the dim light and the distance.

“So, what happened to you guys?” Varric asked, voicing the question on everyone’s lips. He was carrying two packs as well as his crossbow, seeing as Carver had one arm around Hrodwynn and didn’t look like he’d ever let go again. He nodded his thanks when Sandal came up beside him, pushing an empty cart. It was the one he and Bodahn had hidden beneath earlier, one of the few salvageable carts the darkspawn hadn’t destroyed in their frenzied fight. Varric dumped his sacks in, along with as many others as he thought he could handle, before he began trundling down the road.

“It’s… well…” Hrodwynn muttered, her mind befuddled as if she was within a dream. It certainly felt that way, with Carver’s warm body beside her once more, something that even an hour ago she’d believed she had no right to ever expect again. It made having him near all the more precious.

“Hard to find the words?” Varric supplied. “Try this: my brother—my own flesh-and-blood brother—locked me inside a prehistoric thaig full of treasure, all so he could run off with one little statue. Stupid son of a bitch! Again, sorry, mother.”

She’d never seen Varric so mad that he had to spit, but he did so now, his normally jovial and easy-going face twisted into hate and righteous vengeance… all to try to hide the pain.

“That basically sums up what happened to us,” Hawke added, pushing his own heavy cart. He didn’t seem adverse to the labor, now that there were no porters to do the menial tasks for them. And with Aveline ranging ahead, Fenris and Carver injured, and Hrodwynn obviously needing to be held, the second cart fell to him. “Luckily we found another way out of the thaig, though we had to cut our way through a host of shades and profanes. Oh, there was that hunger demon. He wanted to make a deal with us, offered to show us the way out.” He scoffed, “As if we’d make deals with demons.”

“Don’t forget the ancient rock wraith,” Varric said, looking like he was back in control of his emotions again. “Yeah, that was fun. Makes me wonder why my ancestors ever thought that living underground was such a good idea.”

“All of this at once?” she asked, incredulous.

“Of course not, Button. Here, let me start at the beginning…”

The next part of the journey passed pleasantly enough, as pleasantly as possible considering the ambiance, as Varric told what had happened to them over the past few days. Next it was Hrodwynn’s turn to tell them what Bartrand had said, how he’d disappeared, and the decision she had to make to not go after them. Carver squeezed her shoulder a little tighter through it all, as if silently accepting her judgment, letting her know it was alright, she had done the right thing, and they were all together again and would get out of the Deep Roads alive and well.

It had probably taken them hours, but with the exchange of tales it didn’t seem quite so long before they caught up with Aveline. She had found a nice little pile of rubble, which she had already started to shift into a defendable campsite. Fenris, who had been silent up to this point, made to help her but Hawke stopped him before he could get started. “Alright! Everyone with injuries, gather round Hrodwynn for tending. That means you, Fenris, and you, Carver. Bodahn, if you’re not hurt, could you and Sandal handle making somewhat to eat? Aveline, Varric and I will work on the fortifications. Until Hrodwynn’s seen to the others; then you can look at my leg,” he added this last to her, stopping her protest before it could leave her lips. Not wanting to let him off completely without comment, she stuck her tongue out at him, purely out of principle.

Even though it was under Hawke’s orders, it felt good to be doing something, something familiar and normal, and something she was good at. She reluctantly slipped out of Carver’s embrace and set her pack down on a handy boulder. “Well, then, Carver, do you have anything else besides that cut on your arm?” She didn’t look up, rummaging in her pack for what she thought she would need. Her tone was all business, putting aside her emotions and slipping into the role of healer.

He shook his head, feeling the world spin now that Hrodwynn wasn’t there to hold him up. “No, I… it’s only… a scratch.”

“That’s not so bad,” she agreed, not quite registering the exhausted sound of his voice. “What about you, Fenris?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she looked up at him. He was standing stiffly a few feet away, his hand pressed against the opposite side, his eyes shifting away as if he was trying to think of a lie. Seeing that she had noticed his odd stance and already deduced his injury, he decided to be honest. “I took a blow to the ribs when we were fighting the rock wraith. A few may have been cracked.”

“May have been?” she repeated, clearly not convinced. She sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. “And yet you still had to fight off a score of darkspawn single-handedly, swinging that greatsword around like a hobby horse. Men! Why do you always downplay your battle wounds?”

“We don't like… to complain…” Carver panted, his lungs laboring to breathe. He didn’t like the way he was sweating, or the headache that was hammering as if his brains would beat their way out of his skull. He knew—Maker’s breath!—he knew what was wrong. He had known for some time, he simply didn’t want to deal with it. Not yet. Not until they found Wynnie alive and well. Not until they got her to safety.

But his time was up. He knew he’d never make Kirkwall. He pulled the scarf from his neck to wipe at the sweat. “Garret…?”

Hawke nearly dropped the stone he was holding. It was his little brother’s voice, not the man Carver had grown into, but the younger boy who had always been chasing after him, wanting to do the same things Hawke did even if he wasn’t old enough for them yet. He heard that lost and pleading tone, of that little boy who didn’t want to be left behind, and he knew something was very, very wrong. He managed to set the rock down without dropping it on his foot. “Carver?”

Carver stood a moment longer, looking at the bright yellow scarf stained with sweat and grime. There was a larger boulder off to the side, and he leaned in that direction, intending to sit down on it, but his world upended…

“Carver!”

It was Hrodwynn’s voice that shouted, but it was Hawke’s arms that caught him. Still, both faces filled his vision, one to either side, Hrodwynn’s hair falling forwards, the ends just long enough to tickle her cheeks. He reached a shaky hand up to brush the dark red tresses behind an ear. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, Wynnie…”

“Let me see his arm. Did it get infected?” She was all business, placing his hand firmly though tenderly at his side before leaning across to undo the bandage around the other arm.

“You stupid arse,” Hawke chided, his tone gentle. “You should have said something earlier. Letting a wound fester like this until you came down with a fever…” He broke off as she removed the last of the stained dressings.

Carver’s smile was more a grimace, not for any physical pain, but for the pain of the truth. “It’s not infected. Not a normal infection, anyway.” He swallowed painfully, feeling the poison spreading faster and faster through his body, making him moan. “It’s the taint, isn’t it.”

Hawke wanted to shake him. He wanted to scold him for scaring him like this, for acting like a hypochondriac and overplaying his illness. One look at Hrodwynn’s face, however, and he knew Carver was right.

“Just like… ah… just like that templar, Aveline’s husband, Wesley.”

There was a sound behind them, something soft and quickly choked into silence. Hrodwynn didn’t bother to look, didn’t bother to think too much about what he was saying. She was wracking her brain, trying to think, trying to figure out how to save him. But her answer was: nothing.

“Fuck,” Varric sighed. “We’re still days from Kirkwall. We’ll never make it… he’ll… never make it. I’m sorry.” In a dark, barely heard undertone he finished, “Yet another thing my brother needs to answer for…”

No, no, no, nononono… began circling through Hrodwynn’s thoughts. Everything else led to pain, to death, to the end. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to lose Carver, not after just getting him back again. It wasn’t fair! She wanted to rage, she wanted to scream, she wanted to throw things… but none of that would help Carver now. Or Hawke.

Or herself.

“Wynnie,” Carver sighed, reaching out for her face again. She gripped his hand, holding it fast to her cheek, kissing his wrist. “I’m sorry, Wynnie. I wanted…” he paused to grimace, the pain increasing, as if finally acknowledging the inevitable had caused the process to speed up. “Argh… I wanted to take you to Ferelden. I really did. So badly…”

She could see how much it hurt him, emotionally and physically, to admit he was dying. She nodded against his palm, burying her pain deep inside. For him she would be strong. For him she would smile. For him she would hide her tears—until after. “I would’ve liked to have gone there with you.”

She was rewarded with a smile.

“Maker!” he suddenly gasped, feeling his insides twist and knot. He tried to curl in on himself, but Hawke and Hrodwynn were in the way, even if he could have found the strength. He waited for the pain to ebb, never leaving fully, but dulling enough for him to breathe again. “Garret?”

“I’m here,” Hawke answered, worried that he was already too far gone to see him.

“I can feel it,” Carver said, a strange sort of detachment in his voice, “I can feel it spreading through me, killing me. I can feel it attacking my mind. I don’t want to die like that. Please, Garret, I want to die as a man, not a drooling lunatic.”

“Carver…”

“Please,” he insisted, his other hand coming up to grip Hawke’s shoulder. “It isn’t going to make any difference, whether I die today, or tomorrow—except to me. It makes a difference to me. Please, do this one last thing for me.”

Hawke was shaking with the effort of holding himself in control. He could barely keep the trembling from his voice as he answered, “Damn it, Carver, you always did ask for the world, you spoiled brat.” The words were without heat, spoken more like a nickname than an insult.

Carver smiled, that knowing-little-brother-I’m-going-to-tattle-on-you smile. “You always gave it. If I turned out so spoiled, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Hawke didn’t answer, his thoughts refusing to form words. All those things he wanted to say, all those things he’d never get the chance… Manfully he strove to take a steadying breath, before reaching for the dagger at his waist.

“Wait,” Carver gasped, suddenly realizing Hrodwynn was still there. “Wynnie, Wynnie, my love, you don’t want to watch. You don’t want to see this. Go stand over there, with the others. Go. I love you, Wynnie. Please, go.”

The protest was on her lips, flashed across her face, simmered in her eyes, but he was so sincere she couldn’t give it voice. She looked to Hawke for guidance, for an ally, for someone to tell her she could stay. But he nodded, gesturing with his head for her to go.

She took one final look at Carver, kissed again the hand she held next to her face, and quietly gave in. She slowly gained her feet, holding his hand for as long as she could until the reach was too great and it fell away. Then she turned and walked back to her pack beside Fenris.

“Make it quick and clean,” Carver asked, “Right through the heart.”

Hrodwynn tried to close her ears, to focus on what was around her to keep from knowing what was happening behind her. Immediately she could feel the nearness of the elf, the heat boiling off his body like an open oven. She yearned for that heat, for that closeness with somebody—anybody—just then, but she had no right to ask him for comfort.

Carver grunted as Hawke started on the fastenings of his armor, intending to move it out of the way so he would have a clear shot at his heart.

A hand touched Hrodwynn’s shoulder, making her jump. She opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them, and lifted green orbs, glittering like emeralds through unshed tears, to see Fenris leaning towards her. He had taken off his gauntlets, that heat she sensed earlier seeping through her tunic, lending her encouragement. His normally dull eyes were heavy with unknowable pain and empathy. His pale lips parted, his gravely voice carrying only as far as her ears, “Be strong. For his sake.”

For Carver’s sake, she wondered. Hadn’t she already been strong? Hadn’t she refused to shed a tear where he could see? He had sent her away. What more was she supposed to do? She curled her hands into fists, wanting to lash out at Fenris and demand an explanation.

Her hands were on her pack, the mouth open, the case of concentrated potions lying on top. Her fingers had scraped the lid, a splinter catching beneath a fingernail, but more importantly gaining her attention. Her vials…

She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the trouble Hawke was having, fumbling with Carver’s armor. Maybe it wasn’t Carver she had to be strong for, but Hawke. She remembered the conversation they had at the bottom of the mine, after fighting the dragon, regarding Hawke’s fears of losing his baby brother. And he was losing Carver; worse, he had to do the deed himself.

She looked back at Fenris, comprehension in her eyes. He understood and stepped away, letting his hand slip off her shoulder.

There wasn’t much time. Quickly she tore off the lid, not caring if it made noise, and grabbed the dark red, almost black vial. She dug a little deeper and found the cup she used for dosing. Next she pulled out the stopper and dumped the entire contents into the cup, adding a little water from her canteen to make it appear as if she had used only the proper dosage.

“Wait!” she called, turning around carefully with the cup. “Wait,” she repeated, walking back to them.

“Wynnie, please, it was hard enough…”

“No, Carver, drink this. For me.” She knelt down next to him again, holding out the cup with one hand while trying to hide the vial with the other. She should have left it back with her pack, but she wanted to reach them before Hawke had to…

Hawke’s hand came out to grab her wrist, stopping the cup’s progression. She looked up at his face, trying her hardest not to look guilty. “Please, Hawke, let me give him this. It’ll take the pain away, make it so he won’t feel a thing. Please.”

“What is it?” Carver asked, panting through another wave of pain.

Hrodwynn smiled and showed him the bottle, trying to keep her heart from racing. She was going to do it. She was going to kill the man who loved her, just to spare his brother the pain of having to do it. She saw Carver nod, recognizing the vial and accepting it was only medicine. Maker, this was too easy. She set the vial on the ground, one hand lifting his head to help him drink.

“No,” Hawke said, taking the cup from her. She looked up at him, shocked, almost panicky as she tried to think of a way to tell him it was alright, she could do this, all without words lest Carver catch on. Instead he signaled to her, nodding his head to where she had set the vial down. It had fallen onto its side, obviously empty as nothing spilled out of the unstoppered top. She looked back up at Hawke, but he only smiled. “I’ll give it to him.”

Yes, he understood what was in the cup, what it would do, and he was willing and able to do the act. She would have liked to say she was relieved not to have to kill Carver herself, but such an admittance seemed… evil… deranged… she didn’t know, and would probably never try very hard to figure it out.

“Wynnie, you really shouldn’t…”

“I’ll stay, Carver,” she affirmed, holding his head while Hawke dosed him with the potion turned poison. “Just until the pain is gone. Then I’ll go. You’ll let me stay that long, won’t you?”

He couldn’t argue, not with Garret forcing the cup against his lips. It was painful to swallow, his throat feeling like it was packed with shards of glass, but the potion began to take affect very quickly. By the end of the cup, he could swallow with only minimal discomfort. “Thank you,” he said, his voice beginning to slur. “That was thoughtful of you, Wynnie. So kind. So pretty. I’m lucky I met you, that I had the chance to know you.” He tried to touch her cheek again, but his hand only made it partway, too weak to reach that far. She caught it up in hers and finished the movement, brushing the backs of his fingers against her skin.

“Garret…?” Carver swung his head to the other side, his neck feeling boneless. “Don’t let mother… blame you… I wanted… wanted to come… would’ve come… no matter… no matter…” He swallowed again and had to cough, almost choking on his tongue. “…would’ve climbed out… the window… followed you…”

“…Like you did when you were five,” Hawke finished for him, remembering the start of some childhood mischief. He must have picked the right memory, because Carver smiled in answer.

“It’s time…” he sighed, his voice barely a breath. “There’s no pain… you should… go…”

“Just a moment longer,” Hrodwynn held his hand tight, but she might as well have tried to hold on to the wind.

Carver was looking at his brother when his lips stopped moving. There was no dramatic sigh as his lungs deflated for the last time. No jerk or spasm as his heart ceased to beat. He simply took one breath, exhaled, and never took another.

Somewhere in the distance was the sound of water dripping. Hrodwynn hadn’t noticed it before, and in the back of her mind she wondered why it was so loud now. Then there was a breath of wind, not something she felt but something she heard, distant and close at the same time, the sound awkward in the cavernous Deep Roads. It took a moment for the sound to penetrate her ears, to form into syllables, and for those syllables to form into coherent words.

_“…I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost…”*_

She lifted her eyes to look at Hawke when his voice faltered, his lips continuing to move but the sound choked into silence. She wanted to help him, she wanted to take up the recitation, figuring it was part of the Canticle, but she had never been religious. She had never felt faith in anyone or anything, except her own self and skills. But for Hawke’s sake—for Carver’s sake—she wanted to take up his burden, finish the verse where he couldn’t, put his brother to rest.

_“Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.”*_

It was Fenris’ voice that carried the final lines of the stanza, drifting out of the void behind them to fall like a blanket over Carver’s still form. Hawke nodded his thanks without turning around, before his fingertips gently closed Carver’s eyes.

The movement brought Hrodwynn out of her shock. Not out of her pain, certainly, but there would be time later for mourning. Just then she had other things she could do, things to keep herself busy, keep herself moving, remind herself that she was still alive. She laid Carver’s hand down, straightening his arm to lie comfortably at his side. She refastened the clasps of his armor, not wanting him to appear half-dressed, though she knew it didn’t matter to him. She finger-combed his sweat matted hair away from his face, pausing to ease his features into a more peaceful, slumbering pose.

At last her hands fell away without another task to keep them busy, dropping to her sides. She came into contact with something soft, and looked down to where her hand rested beside her ankle. Her bright yellow scarf lay there, wrinkled after being knotted and stained with grime and sweat. She picked it up, remembering the elation she felt just a few short hours before, when she saw that scarf again, tied around Carver’s neck. Impulsively she tied it around his wrist, a final favor for her fallen knight.

“We, ah, that is,” Varric’s hesitant voice made her look up, but his eyes were on Hawke. “Aveline found a spot, a little ways back, off to the side, nice and peaceful like. We could put him there, build a cairn over him. He’ll be able to rest undisturbed.”

If Hawke heard, he made no sign of acknowledgment.

“Ah, right, well,” Varric hedged, unsure if it was his place to do or say anything. It had been his brother who betrayed them, his brother who caused the death of Hawke’s brother. Wasn’t it natural for him to feel the guilt Bartrand should be suffering? “I’ll get one of the carts to move him.”

“No,” Hawke spoke, his voice strong again. “I’ll do it. I’ll carry Carver.” Tenderly, like one would move around a young child, Hawke leaned over and gathered his brother into his arms one final time, lifted him effortlessly, and fell into step behind Varric.

The site wasn’t too far away, just a few minutes walk from their camp. Fenris was already there, standing with the others. He had no words for Hawke as he approached, his brother in his arms; anything he said would sound cliche and empty. He could have no idea what Hawke was feeling, as he could remember no brother or other family member to have lost. He had no comfort to give, as there was nothing that would ease the pain or give Carver’s death meaning—if death ever held meaning. All he could do was stand there, silent and still, and witness the brothers’ last moments together.

No one spoke, the silence vocal enough for all of them. Hawke eased Carver’s body onto the blanket, crossing his arms over his chest and straightening his legs. He folded the edges around the body, tucking him in as if he was merely asleep. His hand shook only minimally when he draped the last corner over Carver’s face. Then he leaned back to stand up.

Aveline and the dwarves began piling stones, building the cairn, while Hawke stood there and watched, wearing his grief like a mantle. Fenris came forward to help, though he had already been warned by Aveline not to lift anything larger than his fist. He moved carefully, his side still on fire, his injury understandably forgotten in the face of the tragedy. Hrodwynn came up next to him after a few moments, helping him with the smaller stones, wedging them into the cracks and crevices around the larger ones to keep everything from collapsing. He didn’t know what to make of that, whether to think she was helping him because she remembered he was hurt, or if she was helping him because she wasn’t strong enough to help with the heavier stones. Stealing a glance at her face gave him no clue, her eyes dull and her expression empty.

Her numbness was as deeply painful as Hawke’s stillness. He had seen the flash of yellow on Carver’s wrist, had known it was her favorite scarf that she had gotten from Anders, tied there as a parting memento. She must have cared for the boy deeply if she left such a treasured item with his remains. He had heard Carver’s profession of love to her, and had seen them kiss often enough these past few weeks, though she hadn’t been as vocal as Carver about her feelings. Yet she didn’t shed a tear now, her face void of emotion, as the cairn was finished and they began moving away.

Again the exception was Hawke, who remained standing and staring at the chest-high pile of rocks.

“Never figured you for a choir-boy,” Varric’s statement came suddenly into the cavernous roadway, even though spoken softly.

Fenris wasn’t sure to whom he had been speaking, but when he glanced over he found Varric’s eyes on him, waiting for a comment. “I beg your pardon?”

“Back when Junior…” he broke off his words and cleared his throat before trying again, “When Hawke was reciting a part of the Chant of Light, can’t remember which Canticle, but you were able to finish it for him. I was only wondering how you came about knowing it. Didn’t think they taught slaves in Tevinter about the Andrastian faith.”

“Of course they don’t,” he agreed, “Wouldn’t want to give us slaves something that would inspire us to do anything other than serve our masters.”

“So…?” When Fenris merely returned his gaze, Varric made a disgusting noise and repeated, “How did you learn that verse?”

Fenris lifted his chin and admitted, “I’ve had a few occasions to go inside the Chantry, jobs I’ve taken for other employers—Hawke isn’t the only one I work for. I must have heard it then.”

Varric looked at him incredulously.

“What?”

“You heard an obscure verse—what—once, maybe twice, and you’re able to recite it word for word?”

“I have an excellent memory,” he deadpanned.

The banter was mild, half-hearted, but it was a bit of 'normal' and helped on some level to restore their equilibrium, and lasted until they returned to the campsite. Quietly they went back to what they had been doing before, Bodahn and Sandal cooking supper, Aveline and Varric strengthening the fortifications. Fenris meant to help them, but Hrodwynn’s gentle hand on his arm came as a deterrence. A flicker of elation caught in his chest; despite the events of the past few hours, she hadn’t forgotten about his injuries. Just as quickly he tried to deny her offer, as a form of repentance for his selfishness.

“You don't have to…”

She started speaking as well, their voices colliding into an unintelligible mess in the echoing tunnel. They both stopped and looked at each other, embarrassed and awkward. She cleared her throat before attempting to speak again. “I should check your ribs.”

“Just give me a healing potion,” again he tried to dissuade her, feeling unworthy of her care and concern. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

“The bruise will still hurt until you heal.”

Venhedis, but she always had to do just a little bit more than necessary, care a little bit more, give a little too much. “I can handle it,” he ground out between his teeth.

“I have a salve…”

She wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t leave matters be, and in an effort to get her to hear him, he tried, “Wynnie…”

“Don’t call me that!” Her reprimand was harsh though whispered, sounding like nothing more than a hiss of sympathy to the others, though he was close enough to hear the words. And close enough to see the tears in her eyes.

He was wrong, when he thought her empty of emotion. She was feeling Carver’s loss keenly. It was there, in the unshed moisture that made her eyes glitter like emeralds. It was there, in her darkened lips quivering with denied sobs. It was there, in fingers moving endlessly to try to hide the shaking.

“Please,” she whispered again, “Please, I have to do something, I have to keep moving, please, let me do this. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything for him, please, I need to do something for someone.”

Vishante kaffas, but he found himself unable to say no to her, not when she looked like that, bereft and useless and unwanted. A tear escaped from a waterlogged eye, and he reached up hesitantly to wipe the moisture away with the pad of his thumb.

He acquiesced with a single, curt nod. He sat where she indicated near her satchel, still and straight, his shoulders back, as if there was no pain either from the broken ribs or her incessant tugging at his armor. He made to help her, thinking he could do it faster, but she swatted his hand away. Again he understood the message, though there were no words spoken between them: SHE needed to do this.

He tried not to feel apprehension as his torso was exposed for everyone to see. As a slave he hadn’t been allowed modesty, his whole person the property of his master, not himself. Now as a free man, he knew his body belonged to himself, and that included the lyrium markings, all of which he guarded jealously. He waited for the comments to start, for the others to stare, but other than one or two curious glances, he was left alone. These people did not look at him with the envy and lust as Danarius’ fellow magisters had once done.

These people were his friends.

Hrodwynn, too. Though she had seen the markings before, her focus remained on the bluish-purple mark, not the bluish-white. She made a sympathetic sound, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach out to touch it. He wanted to flinch away out of habit, being touched on normal occasions was uncomfortable, but he kept himself impassive.

For once he was actually glad he had done so. Her fingers were cool across his heated skin, light against the swelling flush with darkened blood. She didn’t speak, but knelt beside him and picked up her jar of numbing salve. He remembered the first time she tended him, cleaning out a festering wound and using the salve to numb the edges before stitching it closed. Her touch now was as tender and gentle as before, and the numbing salve such a welcomed relief he nearly sighed.

It was over all too soon. She stood up, and though he tried to meet her gaze, she could only lift up her eyes as far as his knees. “I, ah, healing potion. You’ll need one.” She turned to bury herself up to her elbows in her pack, rummaging for her box of distilled elixirs. He watched her hands shake as she dosed three drops into a clean cup. He watched the water slosh out of the water skin and nearly spill over her hand. The salve had done its job, taking away his pain, so he stood and approached her from behind.

He had intended to take hold of the cup before she could make a mess. When his arm reached out, when his hand covered hers over the cup, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Excuse me,” he said, his deep voice soft, “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you looked like you were having trouble.”

Having trouble, she thought to herself. Why would she be having trouble? The man who loved her just died. By her hand. Yes, he had been dying already, but she killed him early, with poison. It had been her knowledge that murdered him, her wits that tricked him. Now she was dosing out another potion, and even though it was only a mild one, she couldn’t get the image out of her head of Carver, trusting, drinking the full cup, unknowingly dying…

All these words flying through her head, all these thoughts, all these emotions, and all of it imprisoned inside her. They rattled and raged with each other, pressing against her skull, trying to climb over each other in their desperation to escape, and in doing so only managed to bottleneck and trap themselves all the more.

Fenris saw the signs. Quickly he downed the potion and set the cup aside. With a hand on either shoulder, he held Hrodwynn so she couldn’t get away and said, “Talk to me.”

So much… too much… what to say… what to do… could she trust him…? And the first words out of her mouth were, “Am I a monster?”

He could admit it; he hadn’t expected that. “What?” he blinked, trying to get his bearings. He knew he should find out why she thought so ill of herself and reassure her, but she continued before he could offer any sort of comfort.

“I didn’t love him. He loved me, he told me so lots of times, but I never said those words back because didn’t feel the same way. I liked him, sure, but it had never been love. And I let him die, believing that lie. I’m a terrible person.” Her words squeezed to a halt, her chest tightening so painfully she thought she might have spontaneously broken a few ribs.

He felt her shatter and break, at last giving in to the excruciating feelings. Fenris told himself it was only for her comfort, to allow her the chance to shed healing tears, that caused him to pull her close. Stoically he absorbed her shuddering sobs, her arms clenched too tight around his chest, her hot and bitter tears scalding his skin. He told himself she needed this, the chance to let out her emotions before they festered—and he relished the chance to hold her near. “You are not a terrible person,” he assured her. “Carver died peacefully, believing you loved him. Whether it was the truth or a lie, it gave him comfort when he needed it most. That doesn’t make you a monster; it makes you a wonderful, caring, compassionate person.” Venhedis, but it hurt to hold her. It hurt to let her go, too.

Hawke chose that moment to return to camp, his beard still damp but his eyes clear, clear enough to see Fenris and Hrodwynn in what looked like an intimate embrace. Damn it, wasn’t the little chit supposed to be in love with Carver? And wasn’t Fenris supposed to want to discourage Hrodwynn? Yet there they stood, arms around each other, the elf already half-undressed…

Hrodwynn heard his steps. She lifted her tear-streaked face to see Hawke approach. Her eyes were too clouded to see his expression, which was probably for the best. She immediately let go of Fenris in favor of Hawke, Carver’s brother, someone who undoubtedly needed as much if not more comfort than she did at that moment. She buried her face in his chest, squeezed him tight, and sobbed into his coat.

That’s when Hawke saw the bruise on Fenris’ side, and felt like a heel. Of course, his shirt had been removed so she could tend to his broken ribs. And she hadn’t been seeking anything more from him than comfort. Neither had Fenris, dismissing her now that someone else was there for her to cling to, turning away from them to put his tunic back on.

“I’m sorry,” words spilled from beneath the red mop of hair tucked under his chin. “You don’t need me crying on your shoulder…”

“It’s alright, Hrodwynn,” he sighed. “We both loved him, didn’t we?”

Confessing to Fenris had been hard enough, she couldn’t confess to Hawke, too. Instead she sniffed and fought to get her feelings back under control. “Your leg. It still needs mending.”

He felt tired. Tired and sore and defeated and uncaring. “Just give me a potion, something strong enough to make me sleep through the night. I don’t want to dream.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her hands shaking again as she dosed out the elixir.

* * *

Seven tired and footsore adventurers entered Kirkwall late one evening, the setting sun casting their shadows long across the street. Seven, where there should have been twelve. Four of the missing were dead, and the fifth would pay for the others’ fates.

Varric took one last look at Hawke’s dull brown eyes, and once again swore to himself that Bartrand would pay dearly.

 


	13. Starting Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s been, like, FOREVER since I’ve updated. I do have two other stories I’m writing, ya know. Plus I had a happy little bout of depression I had to muddle through. Anywoozies, I’m back up and running, and hope this was worth the wait…  
> Oh, and just like in the game, I pick up the story three years after the Deep Roads expedition. I think I was clear about that in the story, but, well, paranoia is making me make sure you all know :]

_A dark room, angry voices echoing from the other side of a wall…_

_A woman’s face, well-known, full of concern, stroking her cheek before fading from view…_

_Shouts! A loud bark of an explosion! Someone’s hands pushing her over a railing…_

_RUN…!_

It was a dream Hrodwynn had been having for the past three years, ever since her tragic experience in the Deep Roads. She’d have the dream every week or so, each time she’d wake up feeling that overwhelming urge to RUN, each time there would be a different part that was enhanced, and each morning all of it would fade into grays. And apparently all it meant was… nothing.

Darktown. It was appropriate on some level, she supposed, to be walking through a part of Kirkwall as dark as her thoughts. The toe of her boot struck a small piece of rubble, sending it skittering down the street only a short way before someone else’s shuffling feet struck it, sending it in another direction. She was beginning to hate this place. Or maybe it was Kirkwall she hated. Dark green eyes lifted up to look at the lost and disconsolate souls around her, all refugees from the Blight, none of whom had been able to better their circumstances in the past few years.

For the first time in a long time, she felt overwhelmed by the unceasing current of directionless movement, the stench of stale sweat and vomit and other bodily waste, the seemingly inexhaustible supply of people. She had to force her way out of the flow, find a wall and press herself against the stonework, fingers splayed in a futile attempt to find a grip, to keep herself from being sucked along and becoming lost in that hopelessness.

Hrodwynn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t hopeless. Opening her eyes she forced away the negativity. She had friends. She had a home. And her future was as yet unwritten and bright with promise. With a steel resolve, she firmly pushed aside all the bitterness and disappointment she had been wallowing in, and started once more for Anders’ clinic.

She had just come from Aveline’s office. For three years, Aveline had faithfully searched through older records and reports, shuffling through ship manifests and passenger lists and missing person reports, looking for some hint or clue to Hrodwynn’s past. After all this time, all this searching, even after Hrodwynn shared the vague dream in the hopes that it was a memory… there was nothing. Either Hrodwynn had magically materialized that day on the docks eight years ago…

Or there was no one who missed her. No family who lost their daughter. No lord or master who misplaced a servant. Not even any sign that she escaped from an illegal slave ship. In her past there was no one, no home, no family, no name.

Well then, to the Void with her past! If there was nothing more there than some faded dream, then it held no sway or meaning over her present, much less her future. She was her own woman, with her own mind, her own abilities. She would make new dreams, and right then she was dreaming of sharing a mug of piss—or whatever was served in place of ale at the Hanged Man—with Varric and Isabela and whoever else showed up. She’d drag Anders along; it had been too long since the last time he spent an evening with her. He spent most of his nights sneaking off to rendezvous with his mysterious new love, but tonight he’d come out with her. Maybe they’d even get in a hand or two of Wicked Grace, and she could win back some of her money from Isabela. She was feeling lucky this evening, or at the very least telling herself she felt lucky, because her luck sure as the Blight couldn’t get any worse!

With her mind distracted with trying to distract herself, she didn’t pay enough attention to her surroundings. Too late she noticed the shadows falling across her path moving contrary to the natural flow. Too late she heard the footsteps of others coming up behind her. Too late she felt the wall beside her give way to a blind alley even darker than Darktown.

Quickly she weighed her options. Screaming for help would be useless; no one in Darktown helped each other, not in a situation like this. She’d be just another defenseless sod, plucked up by slavers or rolled by thieves or shivved by cutthroats. Relying on her own wits, she made a split-second decision to willingly go where her assailants no doubt wished her to go, entering the alley before hands could touch her and shove her into the shadows. Her calculated risk payed off, her assailants growing confused over her obliging actions and falling behind, giving her a few seconds’ head start.

That’s all she gained, however. Someone was waiting for her in the alley, someone dark and tall and brandishing a freshly sharpened pair of clippers.

“Jaxon,” she said, trying to keep the startled surprise out of her voice as she skidded to a halt. She felt more than saw the three Coterie thugs behind her, effectively blocking the only exit.

“Hrodwynn,” he answered. He lifted a cheap, fat cigar to his face, using the clippers to snip off just the tip, his eyes narrowing critically at the result. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A couple of years, yeah,” she agreed, refusing to show any fear or anxiety, even as he clipped off a little more of the finger-thick cigar. “How’s the family?” It was a stupid comment, as she had no idea if the git was married, only wanting to keep him talking while she figured out what was going on.

The corner of Jaxon’s mouth twitched into a smile, instantly catching on to her motives. Apparently he wasn’t adverse to taking his time, as he leisurely snipped off another sliver of cigar, trying to see how thin of a slice he could make. “I could ask you that, too, but I already know the answer: that young man of yours getting hisself killed in the Deep Roads, what, three years ago. Must’ve been painful, wasn’t it, watching your lover slowly going mad from the Blight. I have to wonder, did he get so far as to start trying to eat the rest of you? I heard that’s what happens, they go mad and eat the flesh of other humans. Did that happen?” Another snip. “Did you end up having to put him down like a mad dog before he ate you?”

Damn him, she thought. She knew he was only trying to put her off balance, to get her upset. But Maker damn it, it was working! How the fuck was she supposed to respond to something like that? “What do you want, Jaxon?” she more snapped than asked.

He gave a chuckle, knowing he’d won that round. “What have I ever wanted from you?” Snip. “Just a moment or two of your time.” Snip. “And your talents.”

She almost laughed with relief. “My talents? You mean lock picking, don’t you? No, don’t deny it,” she grinned, sensing the tide swinging in her favor, “I heard about that little fiasco last week, some would-be thief breaking into the Orlesian Embassy…”

“Shut. Up.”

“…setting off nearly every alarm as he tried to flee the scene.”

“Shut up!”

“Didn't the City Guard get involved? How long did you have to hide in that sewer pipe, anyway, before the search was called off and you could get away?”

He snarled, a purely hateful and animalistic sound. He took a step forward, swinging the clippers around to her face, sliding one of the open sides into her nostril. She tried to move back, but the thugs behind her took hold of her arms, the third pressing into her back, keeping her in place.

“You always had too much lip for your own good.”

“Careful, Jaxon,” she tried to remain calm, though it felt like everyone there should be able to hear her heart hammering to escape her chest. “You know who I work for, now. Wouldn’t want to piss him off again, would you? Might end up with another hand inside your ribcage.” It was a stretch; truthfully Hawke hadn’t taken her on a job in over a year, for reasons she didn’t want to think about. She could only hope that Jaxon’s information was out of date, that he wouldn’t catch her in her lie.

“You don’t need a nose to pick a lock…”

“Jaxon!” a strong and youthful voice with a thick Ferelden accent called out from a doorway. Hrodwynn knew that voice, had come to hope that she’d never have to hear it again. But there it was, perversely ordering her salvation with a single shout. With a mixture of relief and dread, she held Jaxon’s eyes as he slowly withdrew the clippers.

“Sorry, my dear,” Brekker droned as he stepped up, pushing Jaxon off to the side with the back of his hand, “You weren’t supposed to be threatened, only firmly asked to come here and see me. But you know how Jaxon gets… overzealous… at times.”

“Of course,” she quickly agreed, her own voice a little tight. “Even the best trained lap dogs can turn.”

“Why you little bitch…!”

Brekker didn’t look, but held Jaxon back again with a single hand. Jaxon didn’t try to press past his boss’ hand, but he did stare at her with murderous intent. Brekker gave her a little smile, something akin to fondness lighting his eyes. “Never could tell who not to pick a fight with, could you?”

She shrugged, as best she could with her arms being held. “What can I say? I just can’t stand being strong-armed into anything.”

His smile deepened, without the humor this time. He nodded to the thugs holding her, and they immediately let go. “If I remember correctly, the last time we did business, you practically begged me to let you in on the job.”

“Remember how that ended, you little cunt?” Jaxon taunted.

Brekker suddenly turned to him and commanded, “You have something else to do now, don’t you?”

It was there, that hesitation, that calculating assessment, that wonder if this was the right time to challenge his boss, to seize power. The cons must have outweighed the pros, because a heartbeat later Jaxon backed down. He gave a short nod, signaled two of the thugs to follow him, and stalked from the alleyway.

“Speaking of mad dogs,” she muttered under her breath. She was relieved to see Jaxon go, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think she was out of danger. She might have gotten rid of the lap dog, but the monster who trained him was still before her.

And a monstrously massive woman was behind her.

If Brekker heard her, he didn’t comment, instead walking a few paces away. Hrodwynn didn’t know if she was meant to follow, but as the other woman her didn’t push her forward, she figured it was alright for her to stay still. Brekker turned back to her and stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a hip leaning nonchalantly against an old barrel. “Ah, Hrodwynn. It has been a few years, hasn’t it? You’ve grown, no longer a cute, innocent little girlie, but a beautiful young woman. Taller, too, aren’t you?”

“A little. Mostly it’s the boots,” she shrugged. “The heels give me a couple of extra inches.”

Brekker smiled, again without humor. “Still snarky and full of spunk. You know, that’s what I liked best about you, your spirit! There’s something you have that…” he paused to lower a hand suggestively towards his crotch, “Ahh… so vibrant and alive, a man can’t help but look at you and imagine what you’d be like in bed.”

Maker, please, not that, she thought to herself, resisting the urge to gag.

“You’re wasted here in Darktown, you know,” he continued, pushing off from the barrel to approach her. “So much life. So much color,” he took hold of her short strands of dark red hair, enjoying the soft feeling as the locks slipped from his fingers. She made to pull away, but that monstrous matron was at her back, blocking her. “You should be living in Hightown, on the arm of some nobleman, as his wife—or mistress. Not holed up in an illegal clinic run by a fugitive from the law.”

“Well,” the threat he implied against Anders was not lost on her; so very few knew Anders was a fugitive. She decided she had to play along, at least until she got some idea as to what Brekker wanted from her. “That does sound nice. If you know of anyone…”

“Oh, I do,” he purred, his face looming over hers.

She made a choking laugh, her gag reflex warring with her incredulity, “You’re not serious. You? You don’t even live in Hightown…”

“I wasn’t thinking of myself,” he stopped her scoff with the dark tone in his voice. “Though that is a tempting offer.”

She finally tasted bile in the back of her throat. “It wasn’t an offer…”

His fingers grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her face around. She winced and tried to pull away, but the woman grabbed her upper arms, effectively sealing off any escape. “Shut up, bitch!” He leaned closer to her ear and continued in a softer tone, “I’ve got a special job for you, and it’s not all that unpleasant.”

He paused, and she took a moment to lick her lips and answer. “I don’t work for you anymore,” she whispered, trying not to cry out, his fingers pulling her hair hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“That may be so, but you still owe me,” he countered. His face was so close to hers, his eyes looked comically cross-eyed, though she couldn’t muster the courage to laugh. “You were supposed to do a job for me, but you fucked it up. I let it slide for a few years, true, but I never forgave your debt. Now I find you’re in a position to pay me back. And you will, Wynnie, or someone you care for will suffer.”

Only two people called her Wynnie, Carver—who was dead—and Anders. Again with his implied threat against her friend. Damn Brekker, how did he know so much about her? And Anders—ah, Maker!—Anders was too naive, too trusting, too willing to help others, she had no doubt Brekker could easily trick him into a trap, or have him roughed over… or worse. Though Anders never said anything directly, she knew there were more people looking for him than Templars trying to track down a wayward apostate. If Brekker knew about those others…

He saw the look on her face, the defeat, even before she said, “What do you want me to do?”

Brekker let go of her hair, allowing her to straighten her neck and ease the pinching pain. “Like I said, nothing too unpleasant. You might even enjoy it. I’m told that women find him attractive, don’t they?” Brekker directed this last at the woman holding her, who made a non-committing huff and shrugged.

“You mean want me to…?” she couldn’t finish, the words sticking in her throat.

“He’s a man,” he explained, not so patiently, “You’re a woman. Simple arithmetic.”

“I’m not a whore!”

“You will be what I tell you to be!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth to land on her cheek. As if seeing how close he was to losing control over his emotions, he cleared his throat and took half a step back. “Besides, you’ll probably enjoy sleeping with that upstart Ferelden. You enjoyed his brother, didn’t you?”

Hrodwynn blinked, gobsmacked. No… he couldn’t mean…

“Oh, don’t look so disgusted. It’s not uncommon,” Brekker tried to reassure her. “Nobles and monarchs have been doing it for centuries, keeping it in the family so to speak, a man marrying his brother’s widow. And it’s not like you had actually been married to Carver Hawke, only sleeping with him.”

If only he knew, Carver had never… ah… taken her to see Ferelden.

“So it shouldn’t cause that many heads to turn, if you and that self-righteous git, Garret Hawke, start seeing each other.”

She couldn’t tell if she was still breathing, or had suffocated from shock.

“Might even make a few people feel better, like his mother, Leandra. Lovely woman, she is. Met her last week…”

“You bastard!” Hrodwynn lost it, snapping out of her daze, thinking of what this slimy son-of-a-bitch would do to that sweet, endearing woman. “You mother-fu…”

The slap was loud in the back alley, overriding her protests, strangling her voice, making her head spin.

Brekker didn’t seem upset that he’d lost his temper again and struck her. If anything, he was more upset over her stubbornness. He let out an explosive breath, paced away a few steps, before returning to her, a finger shaking in her face as if he was scolding a young child. “Listen to me. I have tried. I have tried to be reasonable, patient, understanding, but enough is enough. I need you to do this. You will do this. You will not tell him or Anders or anyone else why you are doing this. But you will get close to Hawke, sleep with him, whatever it takes to make him fall in love with you. Get yourself invited to live with him, when he finally purchases that mansion he’s after in Hightown, understood?”

She wanted to laugh, but Brekker couldn’t understand the impossibility of the task. “I can’t…”

He struck her again, a fist this time, punching deep into her gut. She coughed, choked, gasped, her body doubled-over as much as the giantess behind her would allow. He waited until she managed a few fairly steady breaths before he spoke. “You will. You’ll find a way to get yourself inserted into his household, become his closest, most intimate friend.”

“…why…?” she wheezed.

Brekker cupped her chin and lifted her face, studying her grimacing expression. “That’s not for you to know, yet. There’s a reason, be sure of that. And it’s an important reason.” He paused to give a little laugh. “Several reasons, actually. Anders. Leandra. Oh, ah, what’s the name of that silly little elf in the Alienage…” he snapped his fingers a few times, as if trying to summon the name from the other woman, who only stood there silently staring back. “Merril! That’s it. Think of her, walking around Kirkwall alone at all hours of the night. Very dangerous, considering the thugs that like to prey on poor, unsuspecting, frail and pretty girls.” He leaned in close again, close enough to foul her air with his putrid breath. “Think of all your friends, my dear little Hrodwynn. That should be motivation enough to get yourself into Hawke’s pants.”

She felt sick to her stomach, and was reasonably sure it wasn’t only from the punch. She knew his plan would never work. There was no way, no reason, for Hawke to invite her to live with him in Hightown, even if she wanted it. But she couldn’t explain this to Brekker. Sure, Hawke made no apologies for his taste in bedmates, but he also didn’t go blabbing it around to everyone. His friends knew, and his conquests, but beyond that… Well, though society in the Free Marches might not stone someone for such behavior, those who practiced it kept it reasonably private.

So it came down to this: Brekker wouldn’t tell her why she had to live in Hightown with Hawke, and she couldn’t tell him why it would never work. Anders was doomed.

And Leandra.

And Merril.

“What if…” she had to stop talking to choke back the tears, telling herself it was leftover from the blow to her gut. “What if I can’t do it? What if he just doesn’t like me?”

Brekker loomed over her, his face turning expressionless, his eyes becoming flat and emotionless. “You’re resourceful, Wynnie. I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He stepped back from her, giving a short nod to the woman to let her go. “You should get going; mustn’t keep your friend, Anders, waiting…”

* * *

Hrodwynn leaned against the wall, though this time it wasn’t due to some frustrated panic attack. She paused to try to catch her breath, a stitch in her side every time she inhaled. The pain wasn’t too severe—she didn’t think anything was broken, but it was fairly uncomfortable and forced her thoughts to focus only on reaching Anders’ clinic and sneaking a small healing potion. She couldn’t ask Anders to heal her; the last thing she wanted was for him to find out what happened. No, she had to protect him, which meant she had to keep him from finding out about Brekker—which meant she had to either hope Anders was off with his mystery date again, or come up with a reasonable excuse as to how she’d gotten hurt.

Feeling something warm and wet drip down her chin, she drew the back of her hand across the corner of her mouth. Pulling her hand away, she saw blood. Brekker’s slap had cut her lip.

“…git…” she muttered, turning the last corner before the clinic. Once more she tempted fate, lamenting to herself how this day couldn’t get any worse. Once more, she was wrong.

Fenris stalked down what passed for a street in Darktown, a scowl on his face. He hated this place, hated the way his skin crawled every time he walked through the crowded lanes. The press of people made it impossible to avoid their touch, the stale stench of their bodies seeming to coat his skin in a light film. Every time he left here, he wanted to take a bath and scrub the filth from his pores.

Starting with his feet. He knew the moment he stepped in something soft, exactly what it was, his foot disturbing the bodily waste and releasing a fresh stench. He made a disgusting sound and paused long enough to wipe his foot against the side of some building, grumbling about the mess. If it wasn’t for Hawke, he wouldn’t even be here.

Not that he was there on a job for Hawke. On the contrary, he was in Darktown because he hadn’t been on a job with Hawke for several months. Hawke was legitimately busy, preoccupied with purchasing his family’s estate in Hightown, so Fenris supposed he had an excuse. Yet a man had to keep body and soul together, which meant coin, which meant Fenris had to find other employers. He had a few lined up, one fairly regularly—a Chantry Brother who hired him for protection while he and several Sisters handed out food to the hungry here in Darktown.

But that job was finished, he had been paid, and now he was trying to make his way through the press of bodies as quickly as possible. The longer he remained here, the greater the chance he just might run into…

He came up to a cross-street, the currents of bodies merging and dividing, and staggered when he was blindsided by another person coming from around the corner. His first instinct was to push the person away, the touch of another so repulsive in this place. Yet even as their arms became entangled, he heard a rather feminine grunt of protest. The gentleman in him decided he could at least make sure the other—the woman—didn’t end up on her backside on the filth-paved street. His gauntleted hands bunched the sapphire blue shirtsleeve and yanked her towards him.

He noticed her hair first, that dark red he could never forget, that color that haunted his otherwise gray dreams. Then a cheek came into view, the skin pale from spending most of her time either in Darktown or prowling Kirkwall at night. Next appeared first one, then a second emerald green eye, wide with shock and surprise. Lastly he saw her lips, a red to whet his appetite, to tempt his resolve, to rival Agreggio Pavali. “Hrodwynn!”

He should push her away. He had been doing just that, over the past few years, ever since the tragic expedition into the Deep Roads. After Carver’s death, she had shown signs again that she could possibly develop feelings for him. He had done what he could to discourage her, had tormented and verbally abused her to the point where Hawke wouldn't hire her for a job—unless Fenris wasn’t going on it. Though cruel, it had been the best way to keep them apart. Even now he felt the urge to pull her towards him and hold her close. There was nothing else he wanted more, but for her sake, that was the very thing he could never do. Instead he allowed his eyes to hungrily devour her features, like a starving man presented with a banquet, the only yearned for action he could indulge.

His resolve crumbled in the brunt of the small cut marring her otherwise perfect mouth. It was only because her lip was bleeding, was the lie he told himself, as his hand approached her face.

“Fenris!” she started, flinching away from him. Immediately she grimaced, the sudden movement causing the pain in her side to flare up, yet she didn't want him to know how badly she'd been hurt. She schooled her features and made herself stand perfectly still.

He also froze, not understanding at first why she found him so repulsive she had to pull away and make a face of annoyance. Then he remembered all he had done to her, and supposed she did have a right to feel that way. Still, he finished reaching for her lip with his gauntleted hand, the tips of his talons hovering a hair’s breadth away from the drop of blood. Quickly he tried to think of something to say as he pressed the inside, unarmored part of his fingers against her lip to dab at the mess. “Used your face for a shield, again, did you?”

From another man, even from another time, the line might have been the opening prelude to a deluge of witty banter. But after the day Hrodwynn had had, and after all the insults and barbs Fenris had heaped on her shoulders over the past few years, she wasn’t in the mood. Oh, Maker, why? Of all the people in Kirkwall, why had it been Fenris she had bumped into, literally? “Get off,” she grumbled, pushing his hand away, thinking to herself that someone up there must hate her.

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, but he allowed her to remove his hand from the vicinity of her mouth. She stared at him a moment, thinking hard. If only she could confide in him… Yet she was sure he wouldn’t be willing to go back and rip Brekker’s heart from his chest, considering the way he’d been treating her these past few years.

Besides, Brekker probably wasn't in that alley any longer. Even if he was still there, even if Fenris agreed to kill him for her, it wouldn’t matter. Jaxon was poised to take over from his boss. He probably knew why Brekker wanted her in Hawke’s household; he might even prefer that she follow through with Brekker’s plan. No, if she was to get out of this, Brekker and Jaxon would both have to be dealt with… and then the Coterie. Bloody shite, how could she be so stupid? If anything happened to Brekker, the Coterie would be all over her arse. She couldn’t risk that—not even Hawke would dare take on the Coterie.

Feeling trapped, at least until she could find the time to think, she gave Fenris a bit of a self-deprecating smile and said, “It’s a long story.”

One ebony brow lifted with suspicion. Nope, he wasn’t buying it, wasn’t going to let her off without an explanation. Hoping to delay him until she could think of something plausible, or possibly something to distract him, she started for the clinic. As she feared, he fell into step beside her, his head up and eyes scanning their surroundings as always. His next words confirmed he wasn’t about to let this go. “Something to do with lock picking, again? Another Simpleton?”

“Siggerdson,” she corrected, unthinkingly rising to the bait.

“Right,” he nodded, telling himself he wasn’t trying to have a conversation with her, only trying to find out who had hurt her, so he could hurt them. “I forgot the name. I also forgot one isn’t supposed to break into safes in the middle of the day, is one?”

“No…” she ground out between her teeth. He had intended his teasing to be light, but she was too used to being on the defensive around him, too used to his biting wit scraping over every raw nerve, that she assumed by default that he was having a go at her again.

“So, it wasn’t lock picking,” he concluded, smiling to himself, still thinking he was being charming. “Was it pocket picking?”

“Pickpocketing,” she corrected him, her voice sharp and full of exasperation. “And you know I don’t like talking about what I do for a living, outside of Hawke’s jobs.”

“That struck a nerve,” he hummed, sounding pleased with himself, thinking she was only upset because he had guessed correctly. “So, did you get caught before or after you picked the pocket?”

She stopped walking so suddenly he had to turn back around to face her. Damn, that was the second time today she’d been too easily trapped. She hated the idea that he would ever think she’d get caught picking a pocket. She should deny it, could do so quite truthfully, but he’d never believe her. Then again, if he’d just handed her a perfectly plausible explanation for why she looked a little worse for wear, why in the Fade was she trying to deny it?! She stared at him a moment, not sure what she wanted to say, her pride warring with her good sense. “Fenris…”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to…”

“Sh,” he silenced her with a hiss and a hand over her mouth, his head turning to look down a dark and narrow side street. She didn’t know at first why he had done so, and was about to slap his hand away and retort, when the sounds grew loud enough to reach her ears. Curious, she leaned around his haphazard shock of white hair to see where he was looking.

Someone threw a lightening spell, the bluish-white light blinding in the darkness, the crackle of electricity echoing loudly in the narrow passage. Someone shouted, the words harsh and sounding like an order to retreat. Three shadows materialized from the darkness, growing into shapes, morphing into men, and finally bursting from the mouth of the alley. They barreled into Fenris and Hrodwynn, sending the elf spinning off to the side and knocking the human to the ground. She sat there clutching her side and gasping, stunned, even after they had raced past and disappeared around another corner.

“Venhedis,” Fenris murmured. “What was that about?”

She didn’t answer, the shock silencing her voice, the clues shuffling through her mind, trying to fit together.

“Hrodwynn? Are you hurt?” he asked, coming up to her. When she didn’t answer, he knelt down next to her and gave her shoulder a little shake. “Hrodwynn?”

“What?” she blinked owlish eyes at him, the green orbs seeming larger than life.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Oh,” she gave her head a little shake, forcing her thoughts into some sense of order. One of the men who ran her down had been Jaxon, still brandishing his clippers. He had flashed her a knowing grin before knocking her on her arse and getting away. What the fuck had he been doing in that alley? And had Fenris recognized them? “No, ah, they surprised me, is all. You?”

“I’m fine,” he answered. He held his hand out for her to take, like he used to shortly after they first met. She took it, hating the mixed signals she got from him, from hurting to solicitous. Why couldn’t he act consistently around her, just pick one kind of person to be and stick with it?!

Her hand in his, he pulled her with him when he stood up. He saw her wince silently, her free hand reaching for her side. No, she was hurt more than the cut on her lip, but she wasn’t about to tell him. He supposed she had every right to keep her confidence from him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt him to see her hurt. Fenris selfishly stood and stared at her a moment longer, brushing a stray lock of dark red hair back behind an ear, finally noticing something different about her: over the past few years Hrodwynn had finished growing up. Her face was less round, less softened with baby fat and more heart-shaped, her eyes more worldly, her expression less open and trusting. She had grown taller, too, her eyes now on a level with his, perhaps a little higher, her body fully formed with curves as tempting as her lips. Whatever her true age might be, she was now a fully mature woman. He supposed he should have seen it earlier, but this was the first time in a long time that they were alone together.

He held on to her hand until she managed at last to straighten up, a spark of defiance flickering in her eyes when she tugged her fingers out of his grip. She would be alright. She was also angry with him. Again, he could assume the blame, but it had been for her own good. If she developed feelings for him, a runaway slave, it would only put her in danger. That he faced danger every moment of every day was something he could live with—had lived with—but he would never willingly put anyone else in that danger—especially someone he…

A bolt of lightening shot out from the alley, making both of them duck and jump apart.

A very tired and frustrated voice boomed from one of the two forms emerging from the shadows, “Damn it, Garret, that’s Wynnie!”

Hrodwynn blinked, having for the second time in as many minutes found herself on her backside—three, almost, if she counted running into Fenris. “…Anders…?”

“Maker’s breath!” cursed Hawke. “Fenris! Hrodwynn! I didn’t hit either one of you, did I?”

“No, no,” Fenris assured him, standing up and brushing off his backside, thankful he hadn’t landed in anything like what he had stepped in earlier. “I take it you were aiming for those three who raced out of there a few moments ago?”

“Yes, did you see which way they went?” Hawke was eager, angry, his staff gripped in both hands, his knuckles white.

Both the girl and the elf shook their heads. Hawke cursed, spinning his head around his shoulders, trying to determine where the thugs had gone. Anders was a bit more solicitous, coming up and taking hold of Hrodwynn’s hands, pulling her back to her feet. He saw her wince, saw the blood on her lip, and was already casting a healing spell even as he turned to Fenris.

“What did you do to her?” He knew of the verbal abuse Fenris heaped on Hrodwynn, not only from her own complaints, but had witnessed it firsthand. It wasn't hard for him to make the jump that Fenris would start physically hurting her.

“I… nothing… I….” Fenris stammered.

“You hurt Hrodwynn?” Hawke repeated, shocked.

“I didn’t…” he tried again to plead his case.

“He didn’t…” agreed Hrodwynn, though she wondered why she should let him off the hook. The git thought she had been caught pickpocketing, had tormented her for years, had kept her from going on jobs with Hawke. He deserved a little heat.

“What happened?” Anders demanded. She looked up at his face, saw the color of his eyes change, and knew Justice was close beneath the surface. No, she couldn’t let Justice hurt Fenris, no matter how justified it might be, no pun intended. Yet she couldn’t think of a lie fast enough, nor could she claim it happened when the three thugs ran them down. Hating Fenris even more, she knew she had to use his story, that she had gotten caught pickpocketing.

“I…”

“There was another food riot.” Fenris’ voice was strong, louder than hers, drowning out whatever futile attempt she was going to make. All three turned to him in amazement as he continued. “I’m sorry, Hrodwynn, I know you didn’t want Anders to find out and worry about you, but…” he ended with a shrug.

“Food riot?” Hawke repeated. “I thought that Chantry Brother, what’s-his-name…”

“Sebastian.”

“Whatever,” Hawke dismissed it with a flap of his hand. “I thought he was hiring you to discourage any rioting while they handed out food.”

“He did,” admitted Fenris, “He does, but this happened off to the side, after the food was gone and Sebastian and the others had left. Er, Hrodwynn got caught up in it, before I could put a stop to it.”

“Oh, Wynnie,” Anders sighed, looking back to her, “We’re doing well enough. You didn’t have to stand in line for charity.”

“I wasn’t…”

“She didn’t…”

“Charity?” Hawke’s voice cut over all of them. “Anders, why didn’t you tell me you were so desperate that you had to stand in line for food? I would have…”

“I wasn’t in line for any handouts!” The sudden silence after Hrodwynn’s minimal outburst drew all eyes to her. Feeling heat threatening to tinge her cheeks even darker than they already were, she pressed onwards. “I, um,” she stalled, pushing herself out of Anders’ embrace and wiping the last of the blood from her lip, trying to give herself some air and space. “It was after talking with Aveline, I needed to clear my head, so I walked around for a bit, not paying attention to where I was going. Came up on the fight just as it started, and got shoved around for a bit.”

“She was alright,” Fenris added, “Just a little battered, but I thought I would walk her home.”

Hrodwynn did her best not to stare at him. Her day had been confusing enough; she didn’t need the added mystery of why the fuck he was suddenly being nice, covering for her. On top of it all there was an odd sort of fluttering in her chest, something that felt frightening and right and oh-so-strange. Anders, thankfully, came to her rescue; though his distraction wasn’t quite pleasant, it was better than dwelling on Fenris’ mysterious motives.

“So, ah, you saw Aveline,” he started, his tone hesitant. “Did she have any news?”

“What news would Aveline have for you?” Hawke repeated, pushing himself into her business.

She was silent at first, wanting to curl into a little ball, tighter and tighter until she popped out of existence. But feeling all three sets of eyes boring into her, she knew she’d have to respond. “Aveline has been looking into old reports, trying to find something about a missing girl, anything that might lead to an idea about my past,” she explained for the others. Then she looked up at Anders, her expression answer enough, but she finished speaking anyway. “There’s nothing. Whatever happened to me, wherever I came from, the City Guard never got wind of it.”

He nodded, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hrodwynn, you know it doesn’t really matter…”

“I know that,” she nodded, not wanting to hear him say it. Perhaps part of her still held hope that the strange dream meant something, would mean something more someday, but hearing him say those words would ruin any chance. She smiled to soften her interruption. “I do. Truly. Wherever I came from, whatever my past is, it’s my past. Not who I am now. Now I’m Hrodwynn of Kirkwall. And I have you for a family. And Varric and the others. And I’ve got a wide open future; I can be anyone I want and not have to be restricted by anything from my past. And we do well enough, at least, to keep body and soul together…”

“Except for this evening,” quipped Hawke. “Bloody shite, but this is a mess. You get caught in the edges of a food riot,” he pointed to her, “One that you were supposed to discourage,” his finger swept to Fenris, “And we get ambushed by thugs.”

“What were you two doing in that alley, anyway?” Hrodwynn asked, thankful for the attention to have at last moved onto someone else.

“We, ah,” Anders shot Hawke a guilty look, “We were discussing a job, taking a shortcut back to the clinic, through the alley, when those three thugs tried to rob us.”

She blinked at the two, wearing matching sets of lightly pinked cheeks, though at least Hawke’s was covered by his beard. Even after the day she’d had, Hrodwynn’s overwhelmed mind was able to fit the last piece of the puzzle into place. Hawke was Anders’ mysterious new love. Quickly she looked away, not wanting to stare, not wanting to let Hawke think she disapproved. Not that she did disapprove, in fact she felt Anders could see whomever he damned well pleased. But Hawke…? He struck her as the sort who liked the adventure, the conquest, who would try something once—maybe twice—and then move on to the next new thing. Yet Anders had been seeing someone for months now. He’d been seeing HAWKE for months now…

Fenris looked away as well, coming to the same conclusion as Hrodwynn. The thought that Anders and Hawke… He shuddered, not wanting to consider it. It didn’t matter whom Hawke slept with, not to him, they were only friends. Even that one night three years ago meant nothing to him, other than he had derived, and given, physical pleasure. He dared himself to look back at the two of them, to force himself to acknowledged that, when it came to his emotions, there was no jealousy felt when he saw Hawke and Anders smile at each other.

Then Anders turned his head and caught Hrodwynn’s eye, offered her a timid smile, which deepened when she winked at him…

Venhedis! Fenris turned away again and tried to ignore them all while still standing beside them.

“I for one could use a drink.”

“Me, too,” Hrodwynn agreed with Hawke’s declaration. Anders added an enthusiastic, “Here, here!”

“Let’s go to the Hanged Man,” continued Hawke. “First round on me.”

“Lead the way,” Fenris acknowledged, falling into step beside Hrodwynn as they started for the cleanest tavern in Kirkwall.

They had less trouble with the crowded streets; moving together as a group made it harder for the currents of people to pull them apart or off course. They made for Lowtown as quickly as possible, however, by unspoken mutual consensus. Though Hawke and Anders spoke quietly with each other in the front, Fenris and Hrodwynn were silent, something she was thankful for as she tried to nail down what was nagging at her. There was something significant that happened, something she missed, but all things considered, she couldn’t blame herself for letting one little item slip past.

As they gained the upper streets, less stagnant than the streets below though no less crowded, Hawke fell back to walk beside Hrodwynn. “Might I have a word,” he asked her, “In private?”

Fenris shot him a look, not that he had anything to fear from Hawke talking with Hrodwynn, but it would mean he’d have to walk beside Anders. Hawke refused to acknowledge him, however, his focus on Hrodwynn who was pleasantly nodding acceptance. Grumbling to himself, he hastened his pace until he strode beside the Abomination.

Hrodwynn was relieved at first that Hawke wanted to speak with her, not only because it removed Fenris from her side, but because it distracted her from the nagging mystery. She smiled at him and asked, “What’s up?”

He didn’t answer right away. In fact, he didn’t even look at her, his head swinging around to look everywhere else but her face. And when he did speak, his tone turned soft, even a bit self-reproachful. “You and Anders, you’ve been having some trouble, haven’t you?”

“I, ah,” she paused to lick her lips, wondering what he could mean by trouble There was no way he could know about Brekker and his threats against Anders, could he? She glanced ahead to see the other two were a respectable distance away, far enough that their conversation shouldn’t be overheard. For the umpteenth time that evening, it seemed like her mind moved at the speed of molasses, making her have to stall for more time to think. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s alright, Hrodwynn,” he sighed, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder, halting their progress. “I know.”

Dark emerald eyes grew wide as she stared up at him. “You do?” her voice sounded small in the crowded street.

“Of course I do,” he affirmed, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m not an imbecile; I know the two of you are having some financial difficulties, only I never realized it was so bad.”

“Financial…” her voice was quieter than a mouse’s squeak, but Hawke swept on, not having heard her.

“I know he doesn’t like to take fees from his patients, even those who have the coin to pay. And,” he paused to flash that grimace again, “I know you haven’t been able to find much work lately, either. That’s, well, fuck…” he ran a hand through his mussed hair, messing it further. With an expression on his face like he had swallowed something unpleasant, he squared his shoulders and stated, “I’m sorry. I haven’t been using you on any jobs lately, even though you are supposed to be working for me. Your lack of income is my responsibility, and I apologize for any hardship I may have caused you.”

Maker’s breath! Aveline struck a dead end with her past. Brekker blackmailed her into working for him. Fenris showed up out of the blue to torment her. Now Hawke was apologizing. This day had been too much for her. Especially after realizing that it was Hawke whom Anders had been seeing…

Something finally started working in her brain. There was a suspicious tilt to her head as she asked, “Did Anders put you up to this?”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. Returning her smirk with one of his own, he added, “If you would be kind enough to mention, in passing, that I apologized…”

“Of course,” she all but laughed, never once believing Hawke could be pussy-whipped—or cock-whipped?—into anything. And by Anders of all people! Quickly she wiped the grin away and nodded, “Apology accepted.”

“Good,” he huffed, looking around them. “Good. Well. Then. I might have a job for you.” He started down the street once more, walking a little quicker to catch up with Anders and Fenris, who looked to be having a heated though quiet conversation.

“Oh?” she asked, turning the single sound into a very curious remark.

“What do you know about concealed doors?”

Her face scrunched up, confusingly, “What do you mean? Finding them? Breaking into them?”

“Making them,” he clarified. “Specifically, I want to put in a concealed door beneath my mansion that leads to the clinic.” He continued on, talking about how there was a door in his cellar, that opened on a passage that led to a corner in Darktown not too far from Anders’ clinic. Hrodwynn, however, wasn’t listening to him, not exactly. Her brain finally managed to kick into full gear.

Hawke had gotten the deed to his family’s mansion, that very day by the sound of it. And somehow Brekker knew about it, at least knew it was about to happen. Brekker, who sent Jaxon out on a job while he delayed her. And Jaxon! Jaxon, who came bursting out of an alley where Hawke and Anders had been… snogging. Jaxon, who no doubt had seen what Hawke and Anders had been doing, who no doubt figured out they were lovers, who no doubt even now was telling Brekker the news.

“Bloody shite,” she breathed, feeling adrift on a sea of troubles.

“Hrodwynn?” Hawke asked, alarmed by the paleness of her skin. The next moment he realized what he had said, what she might have just then figured out. “Oh! I’m sorry, I suppose I should have told you first. Or Anders should have. Or something. Uh, Anders and I are seeing each other. Um, romantically.”

She blinked at him. He thought she was shocked over the two of them having a relationship. If only she could tell him the truth. But even Hawke wasn’t powerful enough—or crazy enough—to stand up to the Coterie, especially when he was the target.

“I’ve just received the deed to my mother’s family’s mansion today. I’d like to put in that concealed door, for Anders’ sake. It’s not safe down there in Darktown, not if someone comes looking for him. I’d feel better if he, and you of course, had an escape route, a way to reach my mansion where he’d—you both would be safe.”

“Oh, right, of course,” she nodded, hoping it wasn’t as obvious to him as it was to her that her heart was pounding way too fast. What the fuck was she supposed to do now? Worse, what would Brekker do? “We, ah, can take a look at this passage and the door to your cellar, whenever you have time.”

“Tomorrow morning?” he asked, feeling a little better when she nodded and smiled, however tight or forced it looked.

They reached the Hanged Man, Anders and Fenris still fuming darkly at each other. Hawke thought about stepping in between them; despite everything that had happened that evening, he was still in a celebratory mood, and he wasn’t going to let those two ruin it by having one of their little spats, damn it! They seemed to grow quiet, however, as the door opened and all four stepped into the tavern.

Though the Hanged Man was every bit as dank and smelly and noisy as ever, it was also welcoming. Varric was already at their usual table, nodding and listening to a very chatty Merril. She looked like she’d already had a couple of rounds, especially when Varric discreetly shifted her mug away from her flapping hands. Isabela was leaning against the bar, her shoulder to an overzealous suitor. She immediately took notice of their arrival and started to make her way towards them, escaping the would-be poet. They all met up at Varric’s table.

Then disaster struck. As if something suddenly occurred to him, Anders turned to Fenris just shy of the table and said, “Maker, you slept with him, too!”

It might have been alright, if Fenris hadn’t shot him a murderous glare.

It might have been alright, too, if the music hadn’t stopped just as Anders started speaking, his voice raised to carry over the noise that was no longer there.

It might even have been alright after that, if he hadn’t used that one word: ‘too.’

Yet he did. And it did. And he did.

No one spoke for a count of ten, though Isabela’s eyes grew devious and Varric’s jaw dropped. Then Merril hiccoughed, blinked at them, and wondered aloud, “Did I miss something dirty again?”

“I’ll explain it to you, Kitten,” purred Isabela, “When you’re older.”

“Hrodwynn, come sit by me,” Varric boomed, trying to act like everything was normal.

“Fenris,” Hawke took his cue from Varric and gripped the elf’s arm, “Help me get the drinks, would you?” He knew he’d have to calm him down, before he killed Anders. The two went up to the bar to order the next round, Hawke refusing to let go of his arm, Fenris glowering backwards at the table.

“Honestly, Fenris, I never told him. I never told anyone.”

“I believe you,” Fenris muttered, his lips barely moving as he turned to face Hawke.

“Good. Because that’s not me. I mean, I like sleeping around, enjoying the company of others.” He paused to give a little laugh, “A lot of different others. But I never share details. That would be… I don’t know, unethical? Faithless? Rude? But I will admit,” he turned to look back at Anders, a smile tugging at his neatly trimmed beard, “This time’s different. I didn’t expect to find… well, someone who could hold my attention.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “I thought you just said you don’t share details.”

“That wasn’t a detail,” he countered, “That was an admission of love. You should try it sometime. Maybe with, oh, I don’t know, Hrodwynn?”

If possible, his look grew even darker. “We’ve been over this, Hawke. I’m a runaway slave. A fugitive. My life is too dangerous…”

“Oh, get over yourself,” he huffed. “You’re a man. She’s a woman. I know you’ve had feelings for her, though I never really understood why you wanted to push her onto my brother. As for danger, she’s a thief and a pickpocket; she’s already in danger nearly every day of her life. And you, I guess you haven’t noticed, but for three years now, no one’s come looking for you, not your former master, or a slaver, or a hunter, or anyone. I think, Fenris,” he picked up several mugs of ale, “That it’s time to admit it. You’re a free man. You have the right to fulfill your dreams.”

Fenris stared at him as he turned away, only to find his eyes slipping off of Hawke to land on Hrodwynn’s form from behind. For a moment—for the briefest of blessed moments—he allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he could… Mentally he shook himself, picked up the rest of the mugs and followed Hawke back to the table.

The music started up again, and though Anders looked like he would prefer to make a run for it, he did take a seat next to Hrodwynn. He refused to look at anyone, however, even when Isabela heaved her ample bosom onto the table and leaned over, trying to get his attention.

“Hmm,” she hummed, “Must be serious. I can’t even get a rise out of him.”

“Oh! I got that one,” chirped Merril.

“Anyone up for a hand or two of Wicked Grace?” asked Hrodwynn, a little too loudly.

“Always,” Merril readily agreed.

“Why not,” droned Isabela, bored since Anders was ignoring her.

“We’ll use my cards this time,” offered Varric. “Blondie, you in?”

Hrodwynn elbowed him, getting a grunt in response that Varric took as agreement.

“Deal us in, too,” Hawke said as he and Fenris returned with the drinks.

Hrodwynn took a healthy swallow of the tepid brew as Varric dealt out the cards.

“So, Hawke,” Isabela wasn’t finished yet, “Tell me something.”

“Isabela…” he warned, his eyes narrowing.

“Just one little innocent question,” she lied, batting her long lashes at him. “I understand now, why you and I never hit it off,” she swept up a card and put it with the others in her hand, “And I have to applaud your discretion.” Another card joined the others. “I don’t think anyone here knew you and Fenris had been together, especially Anders.” She picked up the last card and reordered them in her hand as she guilelessly asked, “But what I really want to know is: what color is Fenris’ underpants?”

Hawke stared at her, his amber eyes hard.

“Just thinking that you must’ve seen them. And since you’ve moved on to Anders, it wouldn’t hurt you at all to tell.”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he felt like he was repeating himself.

“Oh, so kissing was involved,” quipped Varric, to the general amusement of everyone except those three men.

And Hrodwynn. She was taking another healthy swallow, her mug almost half-finished already, her cards untouched. She only wanted to drink and play a couple of hands before finding someplace quiet where she could pass out. Tomorrow she'd deal with shit. But Merril had to open her mouth again. “That does explain the puppy eyes.”

“Puppy eyes?” Isabela turned to her.

“Yes, quite. Fenris was making puppy eyes at Hawke’s back, when they were returning from the bar.”

Fenris shifted on his seat, straightening up. “You are mistaken,” he denied with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Oh,” Merril sounded a bit disappointed, “I thought, well, you were looking so longingly at Hawke behind his back, but I suppose you could have been looking at someone else.”

Fenris didn’t look up from his hand, continuing to glower as he tossed his coins into the pot. “I do not make puppy eyes.”

Merril giggled, Isabela chortled, even Varric had to snicker; in denying it he only managed to confirm it. Sensing the elf had had enough teasing, however, they turned their attention to the game.

Through the buzz of alcohol, something nagged at Hrodwynn. She couldn’t resist a glance over her shoulder to look at the bar. Her seat was the closest to where they had been standing, and if Fenris shifted his eyes a little bit, he might have been looking at her instead of Hawke. She turned back to the table, telling herself it was the alcohol flushing her cheeks. Again, unable to help herself, she looked up at Fenris. Though both Hawke and Anders sat between them, if he leaned forwards slightly, like he was doing now, he could see her. He could look at her with that hungry expression, like the expression he wore earlier tonight after they first bumped into each other. Like the expression he wore now. With a start she realized he was indeed staring at her with those puppy eyes.

"Button, you in or out?" Varric's voice broke into her thoughts, scattering them like mis-shuffled cards across a table. She made a small noise of assent, and tossed her coins into the pot before stealing another peek at Fenris, but he was back to brooding over his hand again. She dropped her gaze to her own cards.

“Andraste’s anointed arse,” she moaned. She’d been dealt the Angel of Death, the card that stopped play. On top of that, she had the absolute worst possible hand, without a single matching pair. She grimaced and set her cards on the table, picking up her mug. Intent on finishing her ale, she tried hard not to listen to everyone else's protests, and Varric's assurance that they'd each get one chance to better their hands—except Hrodwynn, of course. Apparently, her luck was still sour.


	14. Thursdays…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since my last posting; I fell off the face of the earth for a few months :'D
> 
> Actually, I'm currently focusing mostly on my Skyrim fic because it is the oldest (and I want to finish it!), but I will try to update this fic and my other DA fic more often than I have been. If you ever have a question about where I am or why haven't I posted in, like, 5ever, check out my profile; I try to keep that updated with what's going on.
> 
> As ever and always, thanks for all the Subscriptions/Kudos/Comments *blows kisses*

There was an irritating noise, something akin to a mosquito, buzzing somewhere in the background, too far away for her to swat, but close enough for the incessant drone to pull her from sleep.

Still she made the effort, flapping one of her limbs in an uncharted direction in the vain hope of hitting the fly or whatever it was.

"You awake, now, Button?"

The words were discernible, though muffled with some sort of humming. She thought she should respond, or at least see who was making the noise, so she lifted her head and opened her eyes and…

Pain. Pain exploded through her skull, a dull pulsing pain that repeated like the heartbeat of an anvil. Quickly she squeezed her eyes shut again, hoping that a reversal of the action that caused the pain might relieve it, but it didn't work. Reflexively she tried to whine a protest, but her mouth refused to work, her tongue sealed to the roof and her lips dry and cracked. She decided her only course of action was to focus on breathing, and pray that somehow the pain would lessen.

A large hand cupped her shoulder, rolling her gently onto her back. The movement briefly intensified the pain, causing her to whine again, and a sympathetic sound answered from somewhere above her. The next moment, something cool and hard and rounded was pressed against her lips, which she stubbornly kept sealed tight.

"Come on, Hrodwynn, drink up. It'll help."

Nothing could help her; that much she remembered. "…Nnnngggghhh…" she flailed a limb again—this time she was fairly sure it was one of her arms—at whatever kept talking.

"Uh-uh," the voice—male and familiar—scolded. "None of that, Button. I know you're hurting; and I should probably leave you to sleep it off. Actually, I should've kept you from drinking yourself into a stupor last night," he huffed. "But Hawke's gonna wanna see you in a couple of hours, and it'll probably take that long to get you presentable. Now, quit fighting me and drink this."

Again that hard substance was pressed to her mouth. A hand at the top of her neck tilted her head far enough that a few drops of some liquid could slip out of the cup or bottle or whatever-it-was, and past her parched lips.

It tasted terrible.

She almost wretched it back up on the spot, her stomach roiling as soon as the liquid hit it, but somehow she managed to keep it down. Whoever her tormentor was, he seemed encouraged by her timid success and poured more of the nasty concoction into her mouth.

She sputtered, swallowed, grimaced, and at long last fully opened her eyes. A face came into focus, sort of, the lines of care and a hard-lived life softened by her blurry vision. The wide mouth formed a smile, the eyes soft and full of concern, and a name came to mind.

"Varric…?" she croaked.

"That's right, Button," he encouraged. "You're getting there. Keep drinking."

"Whazzit?" Hrodwynn sniffed suspiciously at the contents. Her hand came up, somewhat shakily, to take hold of the bottle, a light green color that almost matched the tinge on her face.

"One of Anders' hangover cures." Varric answered, holding on to the bottle until he was fairly sure she wasn't about to drop it. He leaned away and stood up, giving her a little space to finish the potion, and to be out of range in case she happened to sick up any of it. "I, er, 'borrowed' it from Isabela. Don't think she'll miss it; there's plenty more where that came from. Besides, you need it more than she does this morning." He waited until she tipped the bottle back and took a healthy swallow, watching all the while to make sure she would remain steady. "Feeling any better yet?"

Something about Isabela tickled a memory for her, but not hard enough to make her remember through the alcohol-coated fog that was last night. "It's working," she answered his question, pushing herself to sit up. Despite the taste, she could tell the hangover was leaving, the pounding in her temples easing and her vision clearing. Ignoring the taste of anise—Maker but she hated that flavor—she tilted her head back and downed the rest of the contents. Now, if only she could remember why she felt like shite.

Varric had left her alone for a few moments, moving to the other side of the room to mess around with some papers on a table. She took the abbreviated privacy to take stock of her situation. She was sitting on a bed, her legs tangled in a blanket that was now hanging off the side along with her feet. She was—thank the Maker—fully clothed, other than her boots which were lying nearby, her shirt rumpled and wrinkled with stale sweat, and her breeches feeling twisted and tight around her waist.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized she was in Varric's room—that she had slept in his bed. Even though it was obvious she hadn't been molested—not that he would ever do that to her—she still felt the unreasonable need to verify that, well, nothing had happened. She couldn't ask him; that would be too embarrassing. Instead she glanced around to see if there was any evidence on the bed, like an indented pillow or rumpled blanket or something. With relief she found no sign that he had slept next to her.

Feeling hopeful, she cast her gaze further into the room. Off to the side she could see a large chair, a pillow crammed into a corner and small quilt draped over the arm, plainly stating where he had spent the night. Yet somehow, even though she knew he hadn't shared the bed with her, her embarrassment refused to cool. There was still the question of how she had ended up here last night. The last thing she could remember was, well, throwing the last of her coin on the table… standing up for another mug… no, sitting back down and missing the chair… then Fenris did something…

"Nothing happened, if you're worried about…"

"Yeah, I know," she quickly spoke, stopping his words. "I mean, I can tell that, with the chair, and…" she flicked agile fingers in the approximate direction of the piece of furniture. Her words petered out, not really wanting to talk about that particular subject. Instead she cast about for a change in topic, but her mind had been damnably slow as of late. At least, she had that impression, that her brain had been working sluggishly even before this morning.

"You'd gotten yourself fairly drunk last night. Could barely stand, much less make it back home." He turned his back to the table and faced her.

"So you, er," she cleared her throat, her thoughts beginning to gain traction, "Brought me upstairs and let me kip in your room?"

"When you got so shit-faced you couldn't find the floor," he paused to shrug, like it wasn't a big deal, "Yeah, I decided to step in, give you a safe haven for the night. Anders and Hawke had slipped away pretty early in the evening, and Merril had left shortly after that. And, well," he paused again, this time to rub at the back of his neck. He decided not to bring up Fenris and Isabela just yet, having his own suspicions about her feelings towards the broody elf, "That left just me to look out for you."

The heat on her cheeks increased, his words making her feel like a little child who needed babysitting. But the mention of Anders and Hawke brought to mind Brekker's little job for her—the threats, the impossibility, the doom. "…thanks…" her gratitude came out with a lot less enthusiasm than she felt.

"You really shouldn't drink so much, not where there are those who would take advantage of a beautiful young woman like yourself."

"I know." The words were automatic, the tone lackluster, her mind preoccupied with a deeper meaning. Had she meant for that to happen, she wondered to herself. Considering all the troubles in her life right now, had a new part of her personality, a dark little corner, a self-destructive streak, taken over last night? Had she deliberately drunk too much, leaving herself open and vulnerable, in the hope that someone would take advantage of her, someone would roll her over or rape her or even kill her so she wouldn't have to face…

"What's got you so scared?"

That question seemed to come out of the blue, even though it mirrored her own thoughts, as if he was reading her mind. She lifted her face, with its lightly pink-tinged cheeks and bewildered brow, and stared at Varric opened-mouth. "Huh?"

"Last night," Varric elaborated, leaning his butt against the table and crossing his arms over his chest, "You were drinking pretty hard. I've seen people drink like that before, usually when they're trying to escape from something. So, what's the problem?" He thought the answer was Fenris, that she was falling for an elf who showed no signs of having any feelings towards her—not that he believed that for one fraction of a second, but he'd tackle Fenris' side of things later. Right now, he waited patiently for her response, never knowing he was about to be blindsided.

What's the problem, she thought to herself. Simple question; not so simple answer. Could she tell Varric? Could he help her? Sure, he had connections, even within the Coterie, but this would be more than a small bribe or a bit of off the books trading. If he interfered directly with Coterie business, it would cause major trouble for him, something for which she couldn't let herself be responsible. "Nothing," she moaned, dropping her face into her hands. Here stood Varric, the one person who might be able to help her, and the one person she couldn't go to for help. Blessed Andraste, but her life was fucked up!

"It helps, you know," Varric pressed, "To talk about your problems. A lot better than drinking, anyway, and without the hangover."

"I can't talk about it." Her words were muffled against her hands.

"Sure you can, Button," he cooed in his most charming voice. "You know you can trust me…"

"No…" she moaned again. Frustration made her drop her hands and stare at him, her bloodshot eyes overflowing with tears. "I mean, I can't talk about it." She stressed every word, as if through willpower alone she could get him to understand.

And, apparently, she could. Varric was silent for nearly a five count before comprehension burst over his features. "Shit."

"Yeah," she agreed, "Shit."

"I thought Hawke got you away from the Coterie years ago."

She laughed, bitter and rueful. "You know better than that. Once the Coterie gets their claws into you…" Hrodwynn looked away again, knowing she didn't have to finish her statement. She stared morosely at the floorboards, her chin balanced on the heel of her hand, her emerald eyes dark and muted. The bed shifted slightly as Varric came to sit down next to her. A moment later and he tapped her boots against the back of her other hand. She took the boots, but remained facing the floor, not wanting to look up, not wanting to get him involved any further…

"I take it this job of their's isn't something you want to do."

Oh, Maker, he wasn't letting this go. The pressure of tears behind her lashes increased, but she battled against it. She did allow herself one sniff before wiping the moisture away. It wasn't as if crying could help her; it wasn't as if anything could help her. "I'm not exactly willing."

"Any chance you could wiggle out of it?"

"No," she moaned, roughly tugging her boots onto her feet, "They know too much about me. They know about Anders, threatened to hurt him if I didn't do as I was told. And Merril. Even Hawke's mother, Leandra."

"What do they want you to do?"

"The impossible," she stated flatly.

"By when?" His voice was calm, as if they were discussing plans for a dinner party.

She finished with the second boot and leaned forwards with her elbows on her knees, feeling more defeated than ever. "Doesn't matter. I can't do it. Soon as he realizes that…" her words trailed off again, more memory returning. Jaxon's face, that gloating smirk as he burst from the alley, making sure she saw him before he knocked her onto her arse. He had been sent to rough Anders over, as an incentive for her to do as she was told, but instead stumbled over Anders and Hawke snogging. Brekker had to know by now that there was no way on Thedas that she could ever seduce Hawke.

"We've got some time, then," Varric concluded, blissfully oblivious to the full situation. "Give me a chance to talk with a few of my contacts…"

"No!" she almost stood up, her reaction was so vehement as she turned and grabbed his forearm. "Varric, you can't get involved."

"You're my friend, Hrodwynn, and you're in trouble. I'm already involved."

"Leave it," she pleaded. "You know the phrase: don't shit where you eat?"

"Uh…" he scrunched his brows, "I'm not sure that quite applies here…"

"I mean," she fought back the frustration, trying to make herself understood without being able to talk about the problem, "You live here in Kirkwall. You love it here. This is your city, your home. But if you get involved in this, if you go against the Coterie, they'll make your life miserable here. Or worse. You know what they can do."

"Yeah," he sighed, beginning to feel her defeat, "Yeah, I guess I do."

They were quiet for a few moments, each lost in their dark thoughts, Hrodwynn with her impossible task, and Varric with trying to find a way out for her.

"There's always Hawke."

"Hawke!" she scoffed, staring at him incredulously. That git was at the very center of this bloody mess.

"Look, I know the two of you have had your differences…"

She rolled her eyes and looked away again. She and Hawke had rubbed each other the wrong way from the very first moment they met. Sure, after a few shared laughs, they had started to almost get along, but that hadn't lasted.

"…and, maybe, for a while there, when he looked at you, well, you used to remind him of Carver…"

That was new. All this time, she thought Hawke had been avoiding her because Fenris didn't like her, and not because she reminded him of his little brother. A lump formed in her throat, thinking of that dear, sweet boy. She had never loved Carver, not the way he wanted her to, but that didn't matter now.

"…but he's changed. He really has. He, well, he cares about… stuff… other people and… things…"

"He cares about Anders, you mean," she clarified, "And Anders cares about me. So, by default, Hawke has to care, too."

Varric heard the disapproving tone in her voice. "You don't think the two of them together is a good idea, do you."

"I…" she stopped herself before saying anything about how their relationship was mucking up what Brekker wanted her to do with Hawke. Instead she took the time to consider his relationship with Anders. She didn't disapprove, really; Hawke's taste in partners had never mattered to her one way or the other, and Anders could sleep around with whomever he chose. It was just that, the way things had turned out…

She ran her fingers through her dark red hair, combing out the snarls. It wasn't fair, it wasn't their fault, but their relationship was going to spell her doom. "Not really," she heard herself saying, "I mean, I don't care, I really don't, Hawke's a good man, and he seems to genuinely care for Anders, and he's been happy—Anders, I mean—ever since they've been seeing each other…"

"Uh-huh," Varric hummed, "Keep trying to convince yourself."

"No, really, I am happy for them, honest," she sounded a little more sincere this time. "I was just… caught off guard when I found out last night… and with the bad news I got yesterday… and this Coterie business hanging over my head… I was a little rattled."

This time Varric seemed to believe her, or at least seemed willing to believe her. "Alright, then here's what we're gonna do. You and I are going to have something to eat," he stood up, holding out his hand for her to take, which she did more out of habit than any desire to fill her stomach. "Then you're going to go meet up with Hawke, and while you're working on that secret passage, tell him about your troubles. If anyone's crazy enough to go against the Coterie, it's Hawke. Besides, you're supposed to be working for him now, and no one else, remember? I'd come with, but I want to spend this morning touching base with a few of my own resources, see what I can find out. Discreetly," he promised, seeing the reproachful look on her face. "And maybe, just maybe," he gently slapped one hand on her shoulder as he opened the door with the other, "We can have this all settled by suppertime."

"That'd be nice." She didn't sound convinced, and he didn't expect her to, but it was all he could hope for at the moment.

Hrodwynn stepped out into the hallway, trying to make herself feel better about matters, now that there was a plan in place. She supposed she should have thought about it last night, telling Hawke what was going on. He was involved in this already, even though he didn't know it. And if Brekker was going after Hawke, Hawke should be warned about it, shouldn't he? Even if he was a self-loving git.

There was an explosion of sound down the hall, making both Hrodwynn and Varric turn towards the commotion. Another door had opened, the residents spilling out into the hallway with a burst of sound and colors. It was a couple, a man and a woman, the woman with caramel skin and a brightly colored scarf covering her raven-black hair. The man was clothed in dark, skin-tight armor, a stunning contrast to his unruly mop of white hair. They were both laughing, the woman's giggle mixing well with the man's hoarse chuckle, as they stumbled and tripped and finally slammed into the wall opposite her room.

Isabela had her back to the wall, not a position she liked, but when Fenris pressed his body up against hers, she decided not to protest. Their laughter fell silent as his mouth claimed hers, their breaths stopped by a shared passion, the only sound the rustling of cloth and leather.

When he pulled off of her, she purred, "Next time you pin me against a wall, you better do something more than kiss me."

He chuckled again, using the back of his gauntleted hand to gently push her hand to the side, removing her knife from the vicinity of his ribcage. His eyes claimed a feral light as he promised, "Count on it."

"It must be Thursday," a male voice groaned from off to their sides. "Everything goes to shit on Thursdays."

Isabela hummed, the familiar voice distracting her. Though she turned her face in the direction the sounds came from, her eyes lingered on Fenris' face an extra moment. It was hard for her to suppress the satisfied smile, even after her gaze found Varric's disgruntled form. "Oh, good morning, Varric. Sleep well?"

Isabela had missed the flash of color at the top of the stairs, dark red hair above a blouse of bright sapphire, but Fenris had seen it—seen Hrodwynn—out of his peripheral vision just before she started down the stairs. Even now his ears could pick out the tight staccato of her steps as the girl raced across the nearly empty tavern below. Curious, he started to ask, "Was that…?" Varric's dark look made the words stop in his throat, and left him with no idea why he was suddenly feeling guilty.

"You know what… bah!" Varric waved a hand in disgust. Just when he got the girl calmed down, those two had to pop out and ruin things. He stared back downstairs at the last glimpse of color before she darted out of view. He supposed he couldn't really blame them for her troubles, but they certainly didn't help!

"Did I miss something?" Isabela looked between the two, one eyebrow raised with curiosity.

"Hrodwynn," the dwarf answered, looking at them now that the young woman was gone. He still wanted to scold the two of them, but decided to focus on Hrodwynn's current problem, rather than take on something new. "She's in trouble. Again."

"What is it this time?" Fenris found himself asking, Isabela falling from his thoughts as his hands fell away from her body. He faced Varric squarely, as if reporting for duty, ready to tackle whatever mishap the girl had gotten herself into.

"The Coterie, same as last time." Varric tried to stifle his irritation, but Isabela's strut as they came towards him was hard to misinterpret. Fenris, at least, was acting like he was taking this seriously, his expression calm and eyes alert. Varric decided to focus on his brooding features rather than her sultry stalking. "They want her for a job. She couldn't tell me what it was, but it's something she can't do."

"Can't?" Isabela asked, "Or won't?"

"I don't know; she couldn't talk about it," Varric ground out between his teeth. "All she said was that the job was impossible. There was something else she muttered, about how her boss would find out soon that she couldn't do it. She never finished the thought, but I got the impression that it wasn't good." He let out a deep breath, rubbing at the back of his neck where muscles were already tensing, threatening to form into a headache. "I'm worried for her. I tried to get her to promise to go to Hawke and tell him about it, figured he could help if anyone could, but she's not in a good frame of mind right now, you know? Kind of… depressed and defeated."

"She did get fairly tight last night," Fenris agreed. "Where was she meeting Hawke this morning?"

"At Anders' clinic, I think," Varric supplied.

"I'll follow her," Fenris nodded. At Isabela's surprised pout, he added, "Just to make sure she makes it there in one piece. If she's preoccupied with this, er, Coterie business, she might not be as alert to her surroundings as she should be. Lowtown can be dangerous, even in daylight. And there's never any daylight in Darktown."

"Just you be careful, too," Isabela grabbed at his waist and caught hold of his belt. She was surprisingly strong for her voluptuous build, pulling him towards her for a brief kiss before finishing, "I'm not quite finished with our little game, yet…"

His smirk was somewhere between self-indulgent and teasing. He didn't answer her, however, didn't promise to stay safe or even return. Instead he spun away and raced lightly down the steps, his bare feet hardly making a sound.

* * *

 

Hrodwynn ran, a tight feeling in her chest she couldn't escape. Bitter tears filled her vision, hoarse sobs choked her breath, but she didn't stop. She wanted to—had to get away from everything, yet she could never outrace her thoughts. Desperate for a distraction, she lifted her head and looked around, but wasn't sure where she was, wasn't sure where she was going, only knowing she had to leave, had to run, had to race away before…

Her steps stopped with her thoughts, everything crashing to a halt before she could go too far down that road. She didn't want to think about THAT; she had enough on her plate already with the Coterie. But even after pushing her emotions aside, that flight-or-fight feeling remained, Brekker's threat looming like a thundercloud over her head. It was like her dream, the darkness, the loneliness, the feeling that everything was wrong, that she had to run away and escape, but… there was no where to run to. She had no hiding place that Brekker couldn't find.

She paused, using her plight with Brekker to distract her from her emotions as she leaned against the side of a building to catch her breath. If she had no escape, if she had no place to hide, then there was no use in running. So instead of running, she would turn and fight! Coterie or no, Brekker wasn't going to force her into anything.

She resumed her course of action as she resumed her thoughts. Varric was right. She worked for Hawke now—however sporadically— therefore, her loyalties should lie with him. And since Brekker was planning something against her employer, she should report it to Hawke.

Even if he was an overbearing, insufferable, full-of-himself libertine.

She turned a corner and headed down a sloping street, entering Darktown. Anders' clinic was a ways away, and she quickened her pace slightly to reach it faster. The usual push and pull of bodies worked against her, slowing her, frustrating her as she fought against the current. She struggled not to fight it even harder, trying to calm herself and her racing heartbeat. She knew she was standing out of the crowd, making herself a target, opening herself up for any cutthroat or thug to grab her and cart her off to Maker knows where. But she wanted to reach Anders' clinic—and Hawke—quickly.

She had taken a wrong turn and had to stop when she found herself suddenly out of the press of bodies and facing a dead end. Biting off the curse, she turned to reenter the flow when she smacked into a man's chest. Hard.

Fenris had caught sight of Hrodwynn not too far from the Hanged Man, surprised to have found her standing and staring at nothing. Obviously she was in deep thought—he knew she would be distracted—her dark brows drawn together and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He suppressed the urge to approach her and let her know he knew about her troubles. It would wound her pride to have him step into her affairs so boldly. No, it would be best to do as he had planned, to follow, to ensure she reached Hawke unmolested. So he hung back, waited until she started walking again, and followed at a circumspect distance.

He could tell almost immediately that, though she walked with a purpose and was headed towards Anders' clinic, she remained preoccupied within her troubles. She didn't blend in with the crowd as per her habit. Instead she struggled against the current of bodies, often finding her way temporarily blocked, and more than once being forced to the side. She had to be flustered indeed to be acting so out of the ordinary.

Finally he saw her take a wrong turn, and knowing Darktown almost as well as she did, he knew she had entered a blind alley. He didn't hasten his steps, as she would have to exit the alley the same way she entered as soon as she realized her mistake, and he didn't want to get close enough to be spotted. He stepped to the side of the street, sliding up next to a wall, blending his dark clothing into the dark shadows.

He didn't see the men until it was too late. Four thugs strolled up from the side, fanning out in front of the alleyway, so when Hrodwynn returned to the street she ran right into them. Fenris hissed a reprimand at his own preoccupation. He knew Hrodwynn was in trouble with the Coterie; he should have been keeping an eye out for other people following her. He couldn't do anything about it now, however, the street too crowded and too public for him to fight them off. Frustrated and hating it, he had no other option but to continue to follow, and hope an opportunity would present itself.

They traveled for a few blocks, Hrodwynn apparently going along with them willingly—if it wasn't for a few dark looks cast at one of the thugs who was holding her arm. These had to be Coterie men, probably taking her to her former boss. He wondered if this mystery boss could have found out so quickly that the task he set her was impossible—as she told Varric she feared. Fenris clenched his taloned fingers into a fist and wished he hadn't left his greatsword behind, but if this Coterie heavy wanted to hurt Hrodwynn, he would be there to stop him.

He saw them turn a corner, quickly and unexpectedly. He hastened forwards, not to catch up to them, but to get close enough to see where they were going before he started after them again. He reached the corner and pressed his back against the wall, the fingertips of one hand reaching around to steady himself. Then he very calmly and very smoothly leaned over to glance around the corner and take in the whole scene.

They weren't there.

"Fasta vass!"

He'd been stupid, again. Quickly he moved onto the street, staring in consternation at the emptiness. The ground was made from stone, showing neither step nor scuff of any recent traffic. There were, however, warehouses along one side of the street facing a rundown wharf, the half-rotted docks looking like they hadn't been used in decades. The thugs couldn't have taken Hrodwynn away on a boat; there hadn't been enough time for the boat to get out of sight and its wake to die away. That left the warehouses. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of rotting fish and decomposing seaweed, he started trying the doors.

The first one was locked, and he moved on. So was the second warehouse. As he reached the fifth warehouse, he realized he had made another mistake. He had assumed: if he found a warehouse locked, that the thugs couldn't have taken Hrodwynn inside, as they would have also encountered the locked door. But they also couldn't have gotten this far down the street before he reached the corner. Therefore, they had to be in one of the warehouses he'd already checked, and must have locked the door behind them.

He retraced his steps, stopping at the fourth warehouse and studying the door. It didn't look like it had been recently disturbed, but he wasn't taking any chances. Thinking of a conversation he and Hrodwynn had once had, he flexed the fingers of his right hand and invoked the lyrium tattooed into his flesh.

It wasn't as easy as it looked, picking a lock by phasing through it. Though Fenris understood the concept, he didn't have much practice, and the warehouse lock was more complex than he expected. He persevered, but eventually he had to admit it was taking too long. He gave up on finesse and used a much more simple technique. His whole body glowed a ghostly blue as he slipped through the wooden portal.

It was as empty as the street outside. Dust lay thick on the wooden floorboards, undisturbed for more years than he cared to consider. Quickly he passed back outside, having never released his power over the lyrium, and raced to the next warehouse.

It was also empty. It took until the second warehouse from the main street before he saw traces that anyone had passed through there recently, mainly because there wasn't any dust on the floors to show footprints. Still, he needed more confirmation. He released his hold, allowing the lyrium etched into his flesh to fade once more into dim, white marks that glowed softly in the shadows.

He stood still, focusing, sending his senses out into the large building. There were several stacks of discarded boxes, a worm-eaten broom leaning in a corner, a feral cat prowling for its next meal…

His heart nearly skipped a beat when he saw it, a small scrap of fabric, hanging about shoulder-high from a rusty old nail sticking out of a supporting timber. He stepped quickly up to it, his fingers giving a slight tremble, as he saw the fabric was a bright sapphire. And still damp with a little blood.

It was from Hrodwynn's tunic; it had to be! He left it alone, and tried to find the line they would have been walking, from the door to the post, from the post to…

There! He ran towards the back wall, his footfalls nearly silent even in his haste, to reach a trap door in the floor. He lifted it, carefully, not wishing to make any noise should the hinges be rusty. They were well oiled, the door swinging upwards freely, but the scene beyond it sent him into despair.

He knew Darktown was, basically, the sewer system of Kirkwall, channeling all the waste from Hightown and Lowtown out into the sea. But he never once considered there could be anything beneath Darktown. He saw now there was something more, an even darker place, bereft of light either by sun or torch or candle. It consisted of a long tunnel, passages randomly leading off to other tunnels. The floor appeared to move, and in looking closer he saw it was water, or sewage more precisely. He resisted the urge to gag and stopped to consider the situation. Seeing the number of side passages just within the sphere of light from the trapdoor, he knew he could never search them all for Hrodwynn or her captors, not in time. And any sounds he heard would be echoed and indiscernible and misleading.

"Venhedis," he growled, and scolded himself when the sound echoed down through the tunnels. He couldn't follow, so he tried to convince himself that Hrodwynn would be alright. After all, if they wanted her dead, they could have killed her earlier in the alleyway. Instead they brought her here. There had to be a reason, a very good reason, to go through all this trouble. No, they wanted her alive, and it was reasonable to assume that they would bring her back this way when they were ready to let her go. He looked around the warehouse, and found a handy stack of crates not too far from the trapdoor. He hefted one more onto the stack to make sure it reached above his head, then settled himself behind them, out of sight of the trapdoor, but near enough to engage the thugs when they returned.

Then the waiting began.

* * *

 

Hrodwynn finally pulled her arm free from Jaxon, before turning to face the man who had sent for her. "Morning, Brekker. Sleep well?" She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, and tried desperately not to gag on the smell. At least she hadn't had anything to eat yet that morning, so there was nothing to sick up. If she had to stay too long down here, however, she wasn't sure she'd be able to eat anything ever again.

Apparently Brekker had the same trouble, several sticks of incense burning around the room, trying to at least overpower the smell of stale refuse and stagnant sewage. He had an easier time than she did, probably because he'd been there longer. In fact, he managed to laugh at her remark. He honestly laughed, and the sound chilled her to the bone. He reached out to touch her shoulder where she had torn her tunic earlier. "Better than you, it seems. Tell me, Wynnie, did you know ahead of time that Hawke was queer?"

She knew he deliberately used an offensive term, so she tried damn hard not to rise to the bait. She didn't bat an eye, didn't miss a beat, as she replied in as unconcerned a tone as she could manage, "Of course not. I flirted with his brother, not him. And Carver and I never talked about Hawke's, er, habits."

Brekker hummed, unconvinced. "If I remember correctly, you were rather upset yesterday, when I gave you your assignment. Very concerned you wouldn't be able to pull it off. It makes me wonder…" the backs of his fingers brushed tenderly down her cheek.

She pulled her face away, to more of his cold delight. "I was concerned about failing," she started, praying her mouth knew what it was saying, because her brain sure-as-the-Fade had no clue what to do, "Because I don't like Hawke all that much. Not personally. I liked Carver, sure, he was nice. But Hawke's sense of humor is a little… acerbic for my taste. Too degrading at times."

Jaxon made some sort of noise, like he didn't believe her. She acted like she didn't care, outwardly staying calm, even to the point of checking the rip in her tunic. Damn Jaxon, this was one of her best tunics, and she knew he deliberately smacked her into that post. "So, now what?" she asked. "I assume you have a back-up plan? Something else for me to do to pay off my debt?"

Brekker stared at her for a moment, unmoving, hardly breathing. It unnerved her even more, and though she tried to hide it, a small bead of sweat trickled down her temple right at the hairline. "No."

"Then we're done here," she said, her voice soft. Something wasn't right; with the way her luck had been running lately, there was no bloody way she was getting off this easy. But if he didn't have a job for her to do…

"Make it clean, Jaxon. Swift and merciful. In honor of her reputation. She was quite a talented young woman."

"What!?" her heart leaped up into her throat.

"You didn't think I was going to just let you go," Brekker scoffed, even as Jaxon gripped her arm and twisted it behind her back again. "No, no, no, my dear girl. You know too much. If I let you leave here, alive, you could very well go to Hawke and tell him everything. Not that you know much," he sniffed, studying his fingernails in the dim lantern light, "But even letting him know I'm up to something, putting him on his guard, would be detrimental to my efforts. No, Wynnie, if you cannot find me a way into Hawke's estate," he leaned forwards, into her face, his breath as putrid as the sewage, "Then I have no use for you."

They stared at each other, practically nose-to-nose. Brekker was good, too good; she was sure he could discern every minutia of her expression, see that she had reacted to his words. He must easily be reading her thoughts, that she did know of a way into Hawke's estate, or she soon would, once she helped Hawke with that secret passage. Damn Brekker, how the fuck did he keep staying one step ahead of everyone?

Her arm was twisted a little tighter behind her back, and she felt a deep tug inside her shoulder, not a sharp pain, but hard enough to make her wince. She could feel Jaxon's breath, hot on her neck, heavy with anticipation over killing her. His intent was obvious. Her death wasn't going to be clean or merciful, not coming from Jaxon. But she couldn't give Hawke up, just to save her own neck.

Could she?

"I'll leave you to it, Jaxon."

"Wait!" she shouted, staring through tears at Brekker's back as he started walking away. Jaxon pulled on her arm, trying to turn her around, but she craned her neck and shouted, "You don't want to do this. Kill me, and you'll really piss off Hawke! He'll hunt you down and make you suffer before he kills you."

"Pathetic," Jaxon growled. "You can't bluff worth shit!"

"I'm not bluffing, Jaxon, you know that." Her brain was finally in gear, a desperate plan beginning to take shape. "Remember Fenris? You might not have seen his face, but I'm sure you remember his hand in your chest, squeezing around your heart."

"What is this?" Brekker's voice drifted from behind them, slightly curious. His command made Jaxon stop, giving her hope she might get out of this alive. From her position in front of his chest, she couldn't see Brekker, but she turned her head as far as she could and spoke very clearly.

"Anders dotes on me, sees me like a little sister or a favorite niece. Killing me will break his heart, and since he and Hawke are lovers, that'll piss off Hawke. He'd do everything in his power to find my murderers and make them suffer, all for Anders' sake. And Jaxon here knows what kind of resources Hawke has at his disposal, the sort of mercenaries he employs. One in particular is an elf who can phase through solid objects. He's gotten his fist around Jaxon's heart before; I'm sure he'll be more than willing to do so again, and this time finish the job. Might even get the honor of killing you, Brekker, unless Hawke saves that for himself. Or hands you over to Anders. You've never seen him pissed off. Sure, he's a healer and kindhearted, and goes out of his way to help those less fortunate. But he also knows a lot about the body, how much pain a man can take before he passes out, before his heart bursts from the stress. Just imagine how long he could toy with you before he finally lets you die…"

It was quiet in the chamber, deadly quiet. There was water dripping sporadically out in the main passage, sounding like a kettledrum in the sudden silence. Still Hrodwynn could barely hear it over the pounding of her heart, so she nearly jumped when Brekker stepped around Jaxon's broad chest and into her line of sight. Thankfully he wasn't looking at her, but addressed his question to Jaxon. "This… elf… is he the one you told me about before?"

Jaxon didn't answer verbally, but Hrodwynn thought she felt his head nod, his chin brushing her hair as it bobbed up and down.

Brekker finally dropped his gaze to hers, locking his dull brown eyes to her bright emerald. She made herself hold his gaze, trying to slow her breathing and ignore the lump choking her throat. Truthfully, she had no idea how vested Hawke would be in finding her killers, and was fairly sure Fenris wouldn't give a shit, but Anders would care. So, maybe, her words weren't quite as much of a bluff as she feared.

"For the record," he leaned in too close again, "I don't believe you. But," he leaned back, one eye narrowing, "I can't afford to take the chance. Very well, Wynnie, I'll let you live. I'll even give you a different job to pay off your debt to me."

"Another job?" she moaned, not quite believing it would be the end.

"We'll discuss that later. For now, you can go. Take her back up to Darktown and send her on her way." He said this last to Jaxon who, judging by the way he tugged on her twisted arm, was fairly disappointed he wouldn't be able to kill her. Hrodwynn couldn't care less how badly Jaxon's feelings were hurt, already tasting the fresh air of Darktown, or, er, fresher air. They started to turn away before Brekker's voice stopped them again. "Oh, one more thing: tell Hawke about this, and you'll wish Jaxon had killed you."

"You can't touch me," she continued her bluff, "Or my friends, Brekker; they're all Hawke's friends, too."

Her face must have shown she didn't believe his threat, because he answered, "Oh, I can do more than threaten you, or one of your friends. I think a certain little puss, what's his name, Felinus…"

"You bastard!" she tried to kick at Brekker's shin, but the pain in her shoulder drew her up short.

Brekker laughed, cold and harsh. "You might care for a cat, but I doubt Hawke would shed a tear if one showed up skinned and nailed to his doorpost. He strikes me as more of a dog person. I'll be in touch, Wynnie. Goodbye."

She fought, she struggled, she shouted, anything to block out the gruesome the vision he described. She screamed and cursed and kicked, but Jaxon's hold on her arm was too tight. He pulled her out of the chamber and back into the passageway.

Tears were again in her eyes, and this time she let them fall unashamedly down her cheeks. Brekker was a special kind of cold-hearted bastard to threaten her cat! She tried to think of what to do, as Anders' clinic was no longer safe for her or her cat. She doubted Hawke would let her leave her cat in his mansion; Brekker was right, Hawke owned a dog. She didn't want to think what that large beast would do to her little puss. Merril's home wasn't any better; Brekker knew about her, too. She doubted Aveline would allow a cat into the barracks of the City Guard. She might be able to convince the bartender at the Hanged Man to let her leave Felinus there, as a mouser, where Varric and Isabela could keep on eye on him.

They had reached the trapdoor, Jaxon pausing while one of the other three thugs lead the way. Then he half pulled, half dragged her roughly up the steps. She couldn't breathe a sigh of relief over leaving the sewer behind, not while she was still struggling to find a way to keep her cat safe.

"Too bad I've got to let you go," Jaxon cooed in her ear, "I was gonna show you such a good time—before the end."

She had a very choice curse on her lips and was about to deliver it when there was a loud crash behind them. Jaxon spun, Hrodwynn still in his grip, to face a nightmare come alive.

Fenris was in his element. Though he had left his greatsword back in Isabela's room, he could never leave behind his skills. He had burst from cover just as the last of the thugs appeared and immediately started fighting. One was dispatched quickly beneath the crate he had thrown. The other two proved more challenging, having been alerted by the crash, but he felt confident he could defeat them. He landed a swift punch to one's jaw while kicking his foot into the stomach of the one trying to flank him. The one he kicked fell to the ground, winded and temporarily out of the fight. The one he punched spun around and back towards him, his fist raised and ready to strike. Fenris blocked his punch with his forearm and sank his hand wrist-deep into the other's chest…

"Stop!" a woman's voice shouted. He paused, surprised, wondering what Hrodwynn was doing. She must see that he was only trying to help. His hand remaining where it was, he looked towards her and finally understood. The fourth thug was holding on to her, a knife at her throat, the blade pushing hard enough to indent her flesh, though thankfully not to break the skin.

"Let him go," she said, feeling the coldness of the blade against her artery. One little twitch would be all it would take to end her life. When Fenris hesitated, Jaxon's hand scraped the edge against her skin, abrading it. "Dammit, Fenris, back the fuck off!"

With a jerk, he let go of the thug. The man gasped, his hand pressing disbelievingly at his chest, unable to comprehend how there was no injury or blood. One look at the elf, however, and he quickly gave up wondering to scramble backwards out of arm's reach.

"That was fast," Jaxon hummed cryptically. Though the meaning behind his words was lost on Fenris, it wasn't on Hrodwynn. "Do we need to be concerned?"

The tears were now hot and bitter in her eyes. Damn Fenris, why did he have to show up now? Why did he have to ruin everything? "I don't know how he got here," she struggled to speak without upsetting the knife. "Maybe he followed me from the Hanged Man. I spent the night there. He saw me this morning."

"Why would he follow you?" Jaxon's question was quiet, meant for her ears only, but Fenris could just make them out.

"I don't know," she whispered, "I don't I swear I didn't tell anyone not a word please believe me…"

"Alright, puss," he purred into her ear, making her think of her cat. She suppressed the shudder, wanting to do nothing more than run for Anders' clinic, run and grab her cat and flee Kirkwall forever! "You! Elf! Listen carefully."

"I'm listening," Fenris answered, "To everything you say."

Fuck it, Fenris, don't antagonize him, Hrodwynn thought to herself, trying to say it with her expression as she couldn't speak. Her bright emerald eyes bored into his lackluster green, willing him to listen.

"My men and I are going to leave here, and you're not going to stop us. You're not going to follow us. Is that clear?" Jaxon took the knife from her throat and gestured towards the main door, his other arm still firmly around her torso.

The other three thugs took the hint. They started moving as rapidly as their bruised bodies would allow, feeling Fenris' feral gaze watch them escape towards the crowded streets of Darktown. Once the backside of the last of them had disappeared, Fenris turned his animalistic stare back onto Jaxon. "There's only you and me, now. Just how do you propose to get away?" He shifted closer to the main door, his intention of cutting off Jaxon's escape obvious to all three of them.

Jaxon gave a short bark of laughter. "Easy. I'm going to give you a choice. On the one hand, you can give chase to me and my men. You might even catch one of us. You might catch all of us."

Hrodwynn suddenly gasped, hearing the knife slide into her side, slipping effortlessly between her ribs, penetrating deep into flesh and organs. She didn't feel the pain, nothing sharp like she would have expected, only the pressure of the blade's passage, and the warmth of her blood spilling down her side as he withdrew it. "But you'll have to leave her behind to bleed to death," Jaxon continued, unable to keep the triumph from his voice. "Your choice." He gave her a shove, aiming her numb body at the trapdoor.

Fenris cursed, but his choice was clear. He let Jaxon race past him and dove for the sewer entrance.

Hrodwynn saw herself moving through the world almost without feeling. She wasn't sure if she was walking or floating, but she could see the dark hole in the ground where the trapdoor was still open, the blackness of the passage beyond, how it seemed to open wider as she drew closer. Then she was tilting, her feet stopped but her head still moving, dropping, falling, entering the pit first.

And stopping. Her head and arms were inside the mouth of the opening, but the rest of her remained outside the dreadful maw. Then it was receding, the light returning, making her feel like she was being pulled from the jaws of death. Something rolled her over, laying her gently on a hard surface. She watched sharp talons reach towards her face before everything went black.


	15. Out of the Frying Pan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, it wasn’t my fault. Honest. ff.net was down again, not letting me upload this chapter much less post it. So I decided to do a little rewriting, since I had the time. And then—right after I take apart the second half of the chapter—it comes back online. Of course, family stuff happened before I could finish my rewrite, so it took even longer…  
> I’m very sorry. Please forgive me. D’:

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes…

…was the ribcage of a fish.

At least, it looked like a fish. Sort of. There was one long, bone-white line in the center, like a spine, and three or four lines curving away from it, like the ribs of a fish. It hovered over her, curious, making small movements like it was trying to figure out if she was animal, vegetable, or mineral—a novelty or a threat. She watched it for a while, bemused, wondering why it didn’t grow afraid of her and swim away. After all, she was an invader into its world, a large, clumsy land-dweller that had somehow found her way into the sea.

No, her brow scrunched slightly, that couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be in the sea because she was breathing, and a person can’t breath underwater. Wanting to make sure, she inhaled. There was a little heaviness across her chest, like a very large, wet blanket was draped over her. But she was definitely able to put air into her lungs.

Well, she continued to reason while the fish continued to hover, if she was breathing, she couldn’t be under water. She must be on land. That meant that the fish was… what? Floating above her? Flying through the air? Like a bird? That didn’t make sense, either. A fish had to be in the water in order to live. And the fish above her was very much alive, its movements careful and deliberate and smooth. If it was out of water, it’s movements would be chaotic and panicky. Therefore, somehow, both of the following statements had to be true:

The fish was calm; it had to be in water.

She was calm; she had to be in air.

The solution hit her so suddenly, she spoke it out loud. “I’ve been swallowed by a fish.”

It made perfect sense, how both she and the fish could breathe. It must have somehow swallowed her, and she was seeing its ribs from the inside, trapped in its stomach with a pocket of air.

“What was that?”

The voice was male, dark, hoarse, as if he had spent years on end screaming; and it had gotten to the point where his vocal chords were ruined, rough, and gritty. She blinked, slowly, her eyes having a little trouble focusing when she reopened them. The fish’s ribcage was gone, but in it’s place was a face, dull green eyes hidden beneath ebony brows, angular cheekbones pointing towards a pair of brooding lips, two white lines falling like a ghostly goatee down his chin. She swallowed and hoped her voice didn’t sound as rough as his.

“‘lo, Fenris. D’choo get swall’t, too?”

She watched his face loom closer, the black brows draw downwards, those lifeless green eyes flickering back and forth as he looked into hers. “Hrodwynn, can you hear me?” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he was trying to explain the mechanism of a very complex lock.

“Yes,” she nodded, amazingly calm considering their current predicament, “Even inside the fish.”

He looked like he didn’t believe her, his eyes widening as he finally understood what she was saying. “You think we’re inside a…” his voice trailed away. Carefully he leaned back, taking his time to look around them, but there was nothing that met his eyes that even remotely resembled a fish—fin or scales. After a moment he shook his head, worry dispelling the shock on his features. “Hrodwynn? Hrodwynn, look at me. Do you remember what happened?”

He watched, his heart in his throat, as she closed her eyes again. His fingers reached down to touch her face, to brush the dark red strands of hair out of her eyes, off of her cheeks, smearing her blood from his fingers onto her gray skin. He waited in agony, fearing those lively emerald eyes had closed and would never open again. But she did open them, gave another slow blink, and struggled to speak, her words slurred and airy. “No, I don’ ‘member the fish. Or water. How’d’we get ‘ere?”

Delirium, he thought to himself. She must have already lost too much blood. Or maybe the knife the Coterie thug used had been poisoned. Or maybe she was hurt somewhere else, like the nail that had broken her skin had left behind a wound that had gotten infected while she had been in the sewers…

He mentally slapped himself, breaking off the string of ever increasingly implausible scenarios. Whatever the reason, every second they spent here was a gamble. He needed to get her to Anders, but he had also needed to slow the blood loss. He hoped he struck the right balance, taking enough time to secure a bandage around her chest, without taking so long that he wouldn’t be able to get her to the clinic before…

Again he pushed the dark thoughts aside and focused on her, cupping her face in hands that were sticky and wet with her blood. “Hrodwynn, listen very carefully. You’ve been hurt. Do you remember that? The knife?” Seeing the confusion on her face, he decided it didn’t matter. “Never mind. I’m going to carry you to Anders. I’ll have to lift you up, and it’s going to hurt.”

“…hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Hrodwynn. I can’t help it,” he swallowed, praying his words didn’t sound too hollow. He knew he had been deliberately hurting her feelings as of late, so it might not be hard for her to think he would make the jump to physical abuse. Yet he couldn’t let her think that poorly of him. He stared deeply into her eyes and willed her to understand. “Believe me, I don’t want to hurt you, but the sooner we get to Anders, the sooner you’ll be better.”

“…Anders…”

“That’s right,” he tried to sound encouraging, but he’d seen deep wounds like this before, and there was so much blood. “I’m taking you to Anders. Try to stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me what it is the Coterie wants with you.” He slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other beneath her shoulders, and stood up.

“Coterie… aargh!” She’d barely gotten the word out before agony burst from her side, spreading through her whole body. She hadn’t felt it before, her body numb with shock, but she sure as the Void felt it now, thanks to Fenris lifting her up. The edges of the wound rubbing together and then pulling apart, the tightness of some sort of binding around her chest, the fullness in her lungs making them feel stuffy and keeping her from getting a full breath, the tugging and tearing in her shoulder as her arm swung loosely from its socket, the dampness on her clothing cooling before the wind of their passage. Every step he took—every jarring impact of his running footsteps—renewed the cycle of pain.

Yet the pain brought back memory, clarity, something she wished she didn’t have, the scenario playing out before her glazed eyes. Fenris glowing bluish-white with his fist in another man’s chest. Jaxon holding a knife to her throat, the edge abrading her skin. Her voice shaking with fear as she ordered Fenris to stop. The knife piercing her side, sliding in easily and deep between her ribs. The heat of Jaxon’s hand and the cold of the knife hilt pressing against her skin. The slick sound as it withdrew, still without any pain, any feeling. The warm wetness—her blood—soaking her shirt and the waistband of her leggings. Jaxon shoving her towards the trapdoor, still open.

But something had stopped her. Someone had kept her from falling. Had it been… Fenris…?

“Talk to me,” he panted, saving most of his breath for running. His chest reverberated with his growl, his fingers tightening their grip, and she wondered irrelevantly what he’d done with his gauntlets.

“Where are your gloves?”

“I, ah, have them secure. Hrodwynn, you’re supposed to be telling me what the Coterie wants with you.” His voice was harsh, commanding, giving her orders and expecting her unquestionable obedience.

“The Coterie,” she whimpered as they turned a corner, the change in momentum pushing against her wound. When she spoke again, her voice was choked with sobs, either from her fear or the pain or a little of both. “No, please, I can’t, I can’t tell anyone, he’ll know, he knows everything, it’s not just me, he’ll kill Felinus.”

“Your… cat?” he asked, remembering how he had helped her name her kitten years ago. “Why would he threaten your cat?”

“Because Hawke doesn’t care…”

It was a breathy moan, a weak sort of sound, accompanied by a light gurgling at the back of her throat. He’d seen plenty of injuries like hers, had caused a few of them himself, and he easily read the signs. She was nearly out of time.

And he was nearly at the clinic. “Stay awake, Hrodwynn, we’re almost there. Do you hear me? I… I can see the lantern…” He glanced down at her gray face and glassy eyes and felt his heart drop into his racing feet. “Please, Hrodwynn, stay with me. Stay awake, Wynnie, please…”

“Don’t call me that…” she whined, her brows wrinkling with irritation, the gurgling growing louder as her voice grew fainter. “He called me that…”

“Carver,” he supplied, hating himself for bringing up the painful, death-related memory. Right then she needed to focus on living, not dying. “Yes, I’d… I’d forgotten.”

“No…” she all but sighed, her voice barely able to be heard over the pounding of his feet on the pavement, the pounding of his blood in his ears, “Brekker…” Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head.

He glanced down just in time to see her pass out. He didn’t waste any breath cursing, thinking only of how tragic it would be, if she died in his arms, only steps away from healing.

* * *

“This isn’t like her, Garret,” Anders whined, rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks. “She usually makes it home on her own without incident. I don’t know why she didn’t last night.”

Hawke reached out and settled his hand on the back of Anders’ neck. They had spent most of the morning in bed, at first surprised that Hrodwynn had left them alone for so long, then concerned when morning turned to afternoon and she still had yet to interrupt their amusements. After finding her loft empty, Anders had quickly grown concerned. “Well, let’s think this through. We were all together at the Hanged Man last night, until you and I left early…”

“I know that!”

“Right,” he agreed, trying to keep his voice calm. “And Hrodwynn had been drinking, quite a bit during the short time we were there.”

“Oh, Maker,” Anders groaned, shaking off his touch and pacing away. Yet the physical activity did him no good; he couldn’t outrun his guilt. And he did feel guilty for his selfish actions last night, for skipping out early with Hawke just so they could find some privacy. He knew he shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have left Hrodwynn alone at the tavern. But what hurt the most was that Hawke seemed to know it, too. “You mean, maybe she got pissed, too pissed to find her way home. Or, or, or maybe, she was on her way home, but she was too tight to pay attention, and got herself rolled by thieves, or…”

“I don’t mean that!” Hawke quickly stepped in. He grabbed Anders by the shoulders and turned him back around, his heart breaking when he saw the guilt in his eyes. “I don’t mean that at all. Listen to me. Varric was there, too, remember? And Isabela. They’ve never let Merril walk home when she gets too deep in her cups. I’m sure they kept an eye on Hrodwynn and didn’t let her leave last night.” When Anders looked timidly hopeful, replacing the self-inflicted guilt, he relaxed, just a little. “She’s probably still there, with the deadliest hangover she’s every experienced, trying to sleep it off in one of their rooms.”

“I…” Anders took a shaky breath, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I always am,” he replied with confidence. “You’ll see. She’ll come walking through that door any minute now, looking properly embarrassed over getting shit-faced, apologizing for keeping us waiting for so long…”

There was a sound at the door, and he broke his words off suddenly. Hope rising in his chest, as much for Hrodwynn’s sake as Anders’, he turned to see who was there.

“Morning, fellas,” Varric said drolly as he strolled into the clinic, “Or should I say, afternoon? Not interrupting anything, am I?”

His voice was too hopeful, his face too cheery, for Anders’ liking. He ignored the dwarf and peered over his shoulder, but the doorway was empty. The next moment, Varric shut it with the heel of his boot, confirming that he was alone. Anders turned away, too downtrodden to speak.

Hawke took it upon himself to answer. “Ah, no, Varric, we are still waiting for Hrodwynn. She isn’t with you, I take it?”

Varric’s face grew concerned, and he adjusted his gloves to hide his apprehension. “No, ah, I sent her here hours ago. You haven’t seen her? What about Fenris? Any word from him?”

“Why would Fenris come here?” Anders demanded, bearing down on him.

“He was following Hrodwynn…”

“That moral-less slave is with her…!”

“Anders,” Hawke took hold of his shoulder, turning him partly away from Varric. “Calm down for a moment. It won’t do us any good, talking over each other. Give him a chance to explain and tell us what happened. Alright?”

Anders’ nostrils flared, but he kept his mouth shut. He gave a curt nod, and turned back to Varric.

“Well, let’s see, where should I start? Ah, I suppose you know, Hrodwynn had been acting funny all evening, like something was wrong, seriously wrong. She ended up getting plastered. Had I realized that she could get blind drunk so quickly, I would’ve stopped her sooner.”

“What could have been wrong?” Anders broke in again. “She couldn’t be upset about us, could she? Oh, right, must’ve been the news from Aveline, that she hadn’t found out anything about her past.”

“Stop interrupting,” Hawke murmured to him, noticing the dark look on Varric’s face. He squeezed Anders’ shoulder for good measure, deciding to leave his hand there for comfort as well as to remind him to keep quiet.

“Thanks, Hawke. Where was I? Right, Hrodwynn was too drunk to make it home last night, so I let her sleep it off in my bed. I slept on the chair,” he added, holding out his hands peacefully, trying to placate Anders before he started shouting again; Hrodwynn was always a touchy subject where Anders was concerned. “Anyway, she woke up this morning, hungover, so I gave her one of those potions you mix up for Isabela. Then we sat and talked for a while. I tried to get her to share with me what was wrong. She said she couldn’t talk about it, she honestly could not talk about it. Which can only mean one thing,” he paused and looked at Hawke squarely in the eye, “Coterie.”

“The Coterie?” This time Hawke interrupted, and Anders elbowed him to keep quiet.

“Right. I don’t know what they want her to do; like I said, she couldn’t tell me what it was, other than mumbling something about how it was impossible. Her own words. So I told her, if there was anyone crazy enough to stand against the Coterie here in Kirkwall, it was you, Hawke.”

“Quite,” hummed Anders with a little pride.

“And, since she was supposed to meet you here, anyway, I convinced her to tell you what was happening. Or at least, I thought I did. She should have been here hours ago, but she ran out of the Hanged Man so quickly…”

“Why did she do that?”

“Oh, ah, just upset,” Varric hedged, trying not to remember the shocked and pained expression on her face when they saw Fenris and Isabela snogging in the hallway, “Over all her troubles, you know. Fenris was there, too, so I asked if he could follow her. I would’ve done so, but I wanted to touch base with my own contacts, see what I could shake loose on the Coterie. Anyway, Fenris left to make sure she stayed out of trouble and got here in once piece.”

“But neither one of them are here,” Hawke surmised, his eyes narrowing, his mind eager to work through the problem. “Did you see any sign of them this morning?”

Varric shook his head. “Nope. Spent most of the time running all over Lowtown and Hightown, trying to figure out what the Coterie could be planning that would involve Hrodwynn.”

“Did you come up with anything? It might explain where she is right now.”

“Other than something to do with a Siggerdson, maybe,” Varric opined with a shrug, “She's currently the only rogue in Kirkwall who can crack one. But that’s just a guess. No one’s heard anything lately, but they’re gonna keep their ears open. Hopefully, something will…”

His words were drowned out when the door to the clinic was kicked open with the force of a hurricane. All three heads turned to see who had intruded upon them, each one expecting trouble. Hawke’s hand found his staff, Varric’s hands had Bianca halfway drawn, and Anders’ hands were overflowing with magic.

“Fuck!” breathed Hawke, his eyes practically bulging from his face. There stood Fenris, carefully lowering his leg as the door bounced back from the wall, his face grim and determined. Hrodwynn lay in his arms, her body limp, one arm dangling lifelessly at an odd angle, her head lax and bobbling as he started forwards. He ignored their little group and made for the table Anders used to examine his patients. Again the other three moved as one, making to meet them at the table. Hawke could see more details as they all came together: the grayness of her blood-streaked face, their blood-soaked clothing, his belt cinched tightly around her chest, fresh blood oozing from beneath it.

“Andraste’s woolen knickers!” Anders was the first to break from the spell, his voice harsh and accusing, like his words. “What did you do to her!?”

“Nothing,” Fenris growled, low and dangerous. “It wasn’t me; it was the Coterie. Now, are you going to stand here yelling at me? Or are you going to save her!”

Anders looked for a moment like he would be perfectly content to stand there and argue with Fenris… but not at the cost of Hrodwynn’s life. He elbowed the elf out of the way a lot harder than necessary and started examining her injuries. Fenris was stressed from worry and exhausted from his race to the clinic, the shove knocking him off-balance and making him stagger. His eyes narrowed and his top lip curled as he stared at the back of Anders’ head. He seemed on the verge of shoving back even harder, out of pure and selfish spite, but Varric’s hand on his chest brought him to his senses.

“What happened?” Varric’s voice was soft as he asked the question, not wishing to distract Anders from his work, but knowing they all wanted to hear how things had gotten so fucked up so quickly. Fenris didn’t look at him, didn’t take his eyes from Hrodwynn, desperate for the slightest tremor of a pulse at her neck, or the gentle lifting of her chest with a breath. She was too damn still!

“Fenris…” Hawke prompted, coming back from closing the main door.

“I followed Hrodwynn this morning, when she left the Hanged Man,” he started, pausing to wince when Anders manipulated her shoulder back into the socket. “Varric was worried that she might be in some sort of trouble with the Coterie, so I agreed to see to it that she got here. I didn’t want her to know I was following her, so I didn’t get too close. Unfortunately, that allowed for four Coterie thugs to grab her before I could stop them.”

Anders lifted her shirt out of the way, exposing the knife wound. Fresh blood started flowing again, though less so than before. Fenris hoped it was due to the wound beginning to close, and not because she was running out of blood. He swallowed and took up his narration. “I tracked them to a warehouse at an abandoned wharf, and through a trapdoor into the sewers. I couldn’t follow them any further, so I waited for them to return. When they did, I attacked, intending to free her. One of them held a knife to her throat and forced her to tell me to back off. After his men got away, he stabbed her and shoved her towards the trapdoor. I could either chase them, or save her.”

They were quiet for a moment, watching Anders mutter to himself, concentrating as he held his hands over her still form, building a spell.

“You did the right thing.”

Hawke’s words were almost muffled by the sound of Anders spell, like a sudden gust of wind tearing through heavy drapes. Her body jerked on the table, but other than that there was no sign that anything had happened. Fenris shook off Hawke’s comforting hand and peered around Anders to see the wound in her side. It was still covered in blood, the sight making his heart sink. A moment later Anders took a rag to it, wiping away the red to show freshly healed skin beneath, with only the faintest pucker of a little pink scar.

Fenris felt his knees want to grow weak, relief flooding through him like a tidal wave, but he fortified his stance with a steel resolve. The last thing he ever wanted to do was to show weakness in front of that Abomination.

Anders, thankfully, missed Fenris’ reaction, his attention on Hrodwynn. He finished wiping away what blood he could, all the while making sure there were no other wounds. Hrodwynn’s stillness concerned him, prompting him to ask, “How long ago was she stabbed?”

“A quarter of an hour,” Fenris answered, “Maybe a few minutes longer, but definitely less than half an hour. I took just enough time to secure a bandage around the wound before I brought her here. I… The knife, I think it might have been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Hawke sounded alarmed.

“She wasn’t poisoned,” Anders replied confidently. “She’s weak from blood loss, but she hasn’t been poisoned; I would have noticed that.” He paused to pierce Fenris with a cold gaze. “What makes you think she was poisoned?”

“Well, she was… delirious… or something.” He gestured vaguely with one hand towards her. “She was awake earlier, and talking, and at one point, she thought she had been swallowed by a fish.”

Varric stared at the elf for a count of three before he burst out laughing. The other men stared at him incredulously while he struggled to regain control of himself. “Sorry, sorry,” he panted, one hand on the stitch forming in his side, the other reaching to steady himself on the table near Hrodwynn’s feet. “Ah, let me guess: you were leaning over her at the time.”

“I…” Fenris thought about it, how he had been leaning across her, buckling his belt on the far side away from her wound, “Yes… how did you…?”

Varric was laughing again, however, and unable to answer right away.

“What has gotten into you?” Hawke demanded, while Anders turned back to Hrodwynn.

“Sorry,” he repeated, finally stifling his guffaws, “But after this morning, I needed something to ease the tension.” He cleared his throat, noticed the dark looks, and decided to explain. “I suppose I’m the only one who’s noticed it, thanks to my stature, but if elves needed to shave, you’d know what I was talking about,” he pointed at Fenris. “The marks on your throat, from below, they kinda do look like a spine and ribcage. Never thought of them as a fish, though, not enough ribs, but I can definitely see where she got that impression.”

Anders smirked, just a little cruelly, keeping his back to the others. A laugh at Fenris’ expense was an occasion to be savored.

Hrodwynn took the next moment to come around, opening her eyes, blinking while she tried to clear her vision and focus on what was around her. He forgot about Fenris and leaned forwards, filling her view with his face, trying to reassure her. “Wynnie? Don’t be alarmed; everything’s alright now. You’re safe.”

She gave a little moan. Her ears were ringing, her chest was tight, her head was pounding—but someone was talking, holding on to her, keeping her from falling back into that peaceful black void. She grimaced and tried again to focus her eyes. There was a face in front of her, but with her brain so fuzzy and light, she was unable to register just who she was seeing or what they were saying. A couple of words, however, managed to make it through. “…Wynnie… alarm… safe….” Brekker had taken to calling her Wynnie, taunting her with his intimate knowledge of her life. It must be Brekker talking; he said he had another job for her, something he’d talk with her about later. She supposed it could have something to do with an alarm and a safe. She struggled to sit up, but hands were holding her down. “Safe? You want me to crack a safe?”

“Er, no,” Anders said, wondering what she could be thinking. He decided to try again, slower this time. He tilted his face so it was more in line with hers and asked, “Wynnie, look at me; do you know who I am?”

She made some sort of non-committal sound, still trying to move the hands off her shoulders, her brow furrowed with irritation. She hated that nickname on Brekker’s lips. “…don’t…” she moaned, her eyes going cross before she could force them to focus. The next moment the lines on her face eased. She recognized the fur-trimmed coat, the strawberry-blond hair, the soft and gentle features of… “Anders?”

“That’s my girl,” he smiled, still gripping her shoulders. She returned his grip, however feebly, and gave him a brave little smile. He was encouraged by her response, and offered, “Here, let’s see if you can sit up.” His strong hands lifted her weight effortlessly, supporting her when she wobbled and threatened to faint again. “That’s it, take it easy, lean on me, catch your breath.”

Varric noticed the little start forward Fenris gave when she nearly collapsed in Anders’ arms. He continued to watch the elf, saw the intensity in his stare as he noticed every detail of her condition, the clenching of his fists as he tried not to reach out for her. Varric looked past him to see Hawke had been watching, too. He raised his eyebrow, Hawke answered in kind, and he rolled his eyes. Fucking stupid elf…

“What…” she croaked, paused to clear her throat, and tried again. “What happened?”

“You were stabbed in the chest,” Anders answered. “Do you remember?”

“Stabbed?” she lifted dark green eyes, wide with shock, up to his face. Her voice was timid, weak, like the mewl of a lost kitten. “I… I don’t… no, wait…” Her gaze fell away with her words. Memory was returning to her in a rush, like a solid wall of marble, overwhelming her and threatening to crush her, the images and voices superimposing, becoming jumbled, mixed up, confused. She took a deep breath, to try to steady herself and clear her head, and felt a tightness in her chest. She coughed, a purely reflexive action, and the tightness moved upwards. “Shit…” she managed to breath before it happened.

The combination of moving and speaking and remembering broke loose something inside her lungs. She started coughing, her whole body spasming with the effort, and Anders pushed her head down between her knees. She weakly gripped the edges of the table, Anders slapping her back encouragingly while she tried to bring something up out of her lungs that felt like her spleen. It was thick and mucous-like, making it painful to breath, almost choking her as it worked its way through her chest, past her throat, and at long last out of her mouth.

Hawke tried not to let the disgust show on his face as the blackened blood dripped from between her lips and splattered across the floor. A fleck or two managed to reach the edge of his boot, but he magnanimously ignored it for the moment.

“That’s it, Wynnie, get it out,” Anders cooed, rubbing her back now that the worst was over. “Can you take a deep breath for me? Good girl.”

Very slowly, wary of every little hiccough or clearing of her throat, Anders helped her sit back up again. Her hand was shaky as she brought it across her lips, wiping away the last of the gore. She didn’t look at it, but when she wiped her hand on her leggings, she felt the sticky dampness there. She glanced down, realized her side and back were almost entirely soaked with blood, the fabrics of her tunic and leggings starting to stiffen as it started to dry. “Maker, but I’m a mess.”

Anders gave an airy sort of chuckle at that, relieved to hear something normal from her. He knew now that she would recover, she only needed time and rest. “Hawke, could you hold on to her? I want to fix her something that will help.”

“Of course,” Hawke answered, not entirely enthusiastic about putting his hands on a girl, much less one half-covered in gore, but for Anders, he’d do just about anything. He came up, hesitated a moment after Anders let go, but when Hrodwynn wobbled his hands were there to steady her.

“Hawke?” she repeated, hating how timid and weak her voice sounded. “You’re here?”

“And Varric. And Fenris. You’re safe, now, Hrodwynn, just take it easy.”

She had started struggling out of his grip as soon as he answered her, but was too weak to push him away. “No,” she gave a low, bleating moan, “I have to get out of here. I’m not safe; none of us are. I have to get out of here. Brekker, he…” she bit off her words, the habit of not speaking about the Coterie was too ingrained.

“Who’s this Brekker?” Hawke asked. “Was he your boss in the Coterie.”

Hrodwynn felt trapped, trapped by her past, trapped by her friends. Yet she had told herself she was going to fight, she was going to get Hawke’s help—or at least let him know he was being targeted. She wasn’t convinced it could do her any good, but it was the only way to keep her friends, like Anders, safe. “Yes,” she nodded, lifting eyes bright with tears up to Hawke’s concerned face. “He… Maker… he’s gonna kill me… or Felinus for this…”

“Felinus?” Hawke asked.

“Her cat.”

Both Anders and Fenris answered quickly, automatically, both trying to spare Hrodwynn as much pain and trouble as possible. Anders shot him a cold stare as he strolled past, bringing a small cup back to her. “Here, Wynnie, drink this; it’ll help.”

She accepted the cup, his hands remaining behind to steady hers, and took a healthy swallow. Immediately she gasped and started coughing. Hawke danced backwards, leaving Anders alone to hold her, fearing she was going to be sick again. Though she choked and sputtered, she managed to keep the liquid down. “I thought…” she had to pause to clear her throat and swallow before she could make her words understandable, “I thought it was a potion of some sort.”

“Nope,” answered Anders, unconcerned over her reaction and even sounding a bit chipper, “I didn’t have the time to fix a potion. This is aged Antivan Brandy. It’ll do just as good, put some color in your cheeks and some vigor in your step. Drink up, Wynnie, but take it slower. This is the good stuff,” he leaned in close to whisper, “A gift from Garret. Wouldn’t want to waste it, you know, by spitting it up again.”

“Oh, no,” she deadpanned back at him, “We wouldn’t want that.” Timidly she took another sip, grimaced as the strong alcohol burned her throat on the way down to hit a nearly empty stomach. She felt her guts clench, but she managed to keep from coughing or sicking up the expensive brandy.

“Do you, er,” Varric started, “Think you could tell us now what’s going on? We know what happened after Fenris showed up, the stabbing and all the others getting away…”

“Fenris!” she scoffed, anger flaring up in her, “You git! I had everything smoothed over with Brekker! They were letting me go. Then YOU came along and… and mucked up the whole… works…!”

She had hopped off the table, her eyes zeroing in on Fenris’ form, a long tirade on her lips. At least, she had intended to go up to him and give him a royal ass chewing, but gaining her feet proved too much for her. She teetered, her knees buckled, and the floor came swooshing up awfully fast.

Anders caught the girl, Hawke caught the brandy.

“Um, perhaps you shouldn’t try that, yet,” Anders suggested. “You’re healed, but you did lose a lot of blood. You’ll need rest and a couple of good meals before you’re back to your old, spunky self.”

She made some sort of noise, but he couldn’t tell whether or not she was agreeing with him.

“Let’s get her to the stool.”

Hawke did not look at all like he wanted to help lift her to her feet, or carry her halfway across the room. Before his hesitation could be noted, however, Fenris came forward and took his place. Anders glared at him, he glared back, but their mutual concern for Hrodwynn overrode their intense dislike for each other. In a rare occurrence of cooperation, they lifted her from the floor and settled her onto a stool.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, Button,” Varric’s voice was calm and reassuring, “But you were about to tell us what’s going on.”

Anders had remained at her side, taking the cup from Hawke to give back to her. She nodded at Varric’s question, took a fortifying sip, and began, “Right. I guess it started yesterday. I was coming back from talking with Aveline. I was, um, kinda upset… preoccupied… because there was nothing in the records even remotely referring to me.”

“Entirely understandable,” Anders needlessly defended her mental state. Hawke gave him a slight shake of the head, signaling him to keep quiet and let her talk.

“I, ah, was walking back here, when Jaxon and his men picked me up.”

“Jaxon?”

“The one who stabbed me…” her voice trailed away, her expression changing as memory sorted itself out. “The mother-f…!”

“Language,” Anders drowned out her expletive.

“Brekker told him to let me go,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But Jaxon stabbed me. He tried to kill me!”

“He gambled,” Fenris stated calmly. She lifted glittering, hard green eyes up to where he was still standing beside her, one hand extended slightly towards her but leaning against a convenient table. “After he stabbed you, he threw you in one direction while he ran off in the other. He thought I would rather save your life, than end his. He was right.”

She blinked at him, eyelids briefly blocking those lively emeralds from view. It was a ridiculous thought, Fenris wanting to save her life. After three years of verbal abuse, degrading criticisms, cold shoulders and outright avoidance, it was more than clear that Fenris hated her. He shouldn’t care if she lived or died. He shouldn’t even save her for Anders sake; she knew they hated each other. Yet he had saved her, had taken the time to make sure she wouldn’t bleed to death and carried her to where she could get help. He hadn’t even considered going after Jaxon or his men. Could he…?

“You were getting ahead of yourself,” Varric broke into her thoughts, sending them scattering away like marbles across the floor.

“What?” she hummed up at him, turing dazed eyes in his direction. “Oh. Right. Jaxon.” She quickly and willingly left that awkward train of thought and returned to her narration. “He picked me up yesterday, took me to Brekker, my old boss in the Coterie. Brekker said, well, he claimed I still owed him, that I never finished the one job he had hired me for, three years ago.”

“What job was this?” Hawke asked.

“The Siggerdson. At the Harbor Master’s Office. I broke into it, like I was supposed to, but, well,” she glanced off to the side. Fenris studied her closely, as he had been ever since the stabbing, and saw the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks. It was encouraging, after all the blood she lost, if she could still blush, even a little. He relaxed, minimally, reassured at last that she was on the road to recovery.

He hated to see her hurt.

“I was only supposed to open the safe, then leave and let some guard they’d paid off almost catch me. The owners of the safe would think that the area wasn’t secure, and move the contents of the safe to a different location—one that Brekker already had covered. But I took too long, and rifled some of the papers, so the wrong guard almost caught me, and the owners had to take three days to make sure nothing was stolen before they moved the contents. The extra three days meant that Brekker lost his window of opportunity. So, technically, I guess Brekker is right, I didn’t do the job he hired me for, so I still owe him.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Varric affirmed. “You never got paid for your part, did you? Then he has nothing over you.”

She laughed, weak and bitter. “It’s the Coterie, Varric. Once they get their claws into you…” She took a sip of the brandy, a little larger one this time, and was able to handle the strong alcohol with only half a choke. “I know, I know, I never should have gotten involved with them in the first place, but I was young and stupid and wanted to prove myself and…” she broke off, biting her lip to silence her self-criticism.

Varric and Hawke exchanged a look; she was still young and wanting to prove herself. “Alright,” Hawke sighed, deciding not to berate her for something she did years ago, “Let’s get back on track. Your old Coterie boss, Brekker, wanted you to do another job for him. What was it?”

She groaned, a sound so full of despair and angst that all four men moved in closer. She said something, soft and eerily melodic beneath the groan, that made Hawke’s eyebrow rise up halfway to his hairline. “Er, could you repeat that?”

“He wanted me to seduce you!” she obliged, the embarrassment lending strength to her voice and stature. “Brekker wants a way inside your mansion—he knew you had the deed to the place before you told me yesterday. He wanted me to become your mistress, so I could have access to your estate, maybe even live with you.”

Hawke was silent for a count of three before he prompted her, “And you said…”

“I didn’t say anything,” she waved her fingers in an undetermined direction, “Not about, um, THAT,” she stressed the last word, as if the extra emphasis held more meaning that she couldn't bring herself to say. “I mean, sure, I said I didn’t want to do it, and asked what would happen if I couldn’t, and, ah, Brekker said I had better do it, that I loved your brother so of course I could love you…”

The tint darkened a little on her cheeks, settling into a delicate pink rose.

“…that it wasn’t that uncommon, and shit like that. I, well, I knew I couldn’t do it, even if I wanted to, no offense,” she added quickly.

“None taken,” he allowed just as quickly.

“But it was impossible. And then he… Brekker… he threatened… he threatened to hurt Anders if I didn’t cooperate… or Merril… or Leandra…”

“My mother?!” Hawke sounded offended. He knelt before her, all but pushing Anders out of the way as he took hold of Hrodwynn’s shoulders. “Where can I find this… Brekker?”

She shuddered beneath the sound of cold anger in his voice. She couldn’t look at him, staring at the corner of his lapel, telling herself she was shivering because she was cold, because she had lost so much blood, not because she was scared. “I don’t know.” She heard the sound of disbelief he made, and risked a glance at his face. His normally handsome features were subtly different, a step beyond normal as if he wore a mask, a calm that ran deeper than any rage. She trembled again, but was unable to look away. “I really don’t. Every time I’ve met with him, it’s been in a different place, an alley or an abandoned shop or someplace else that’s private. And Jaxon always finds me and brings me to him.”

“Makes sense, Hawke,” Varric added. “It’s not like the Coterie has a permanent address or keeps regular business hours. Brekker could be anywhere in Kirkwall, at any time, for all we know.”

Hawke didn’t answer right away, his nostrils flaring beneath the force of his breath as he knelt there and considered. Hrodwynn bore the brunt of his gaze, but he wasn’t looking at her, his amber eyes alight with a fire while he shuffled and sorted through his own thoughts. Maker, what he wouldn’t give to have Brekker’s throat between his hands at that very moment…

He let her go before he strangled her by default, stalking away across the room. Anders stood and called out to him, but Hawke didn’t hear. He was angry. No, he was pissed. Leandra was a gentle soul, a dear woman, and his mother. Something bumped his hip, and at last finding something at which he could vent his spleen, he grabbed the edge of the examining table and flipped it through the air.

Anders quickly went to him, muttering softly so only he could hear as Anders—carefully—put his hand on Hawke’s shoulder. Hrodwynn didn’t pay them any attention, too deep into her own misery and frustration and embarrassment to care what Hawke was going through, only thankful it wasn’t directed at her. She tried to take a sip of the brandy, but her hand was still shaking. Then another hand was there, pale skin and paler markings, steadying her hand and helping her to sip. Fenris’ flesh was warm, as warm on her outside as the brandy was warm on her insides. She followed the hand to the arm, to the shoulder, to the neck, to the face, to those lifeless, dull, emotionless green eyes…

Hawke and Anders chose that moment to come back. “This Brekker is making a nuisance of himself. Right, well, so,” he gave her a little smile and tried to pretend he hadn’t nearly flown into a blind rage, “That explains why you were upset last night. And I suppose I could excuse you for not talking with me right away about this, not after adding in your meeting with Aveline and finding out about Anders and I. So what happened this morning.”

She pulled her gaze away from Fenris’ to face Hawke. This morning, she repeated to herself, this morning she woke with a hangover—this morning she saw Fenris and Isabela… stumbling… far too deep into each other’s personal space…

But Fenris was kneeling beside her, now.

“Um,” she eloquently stalled for time while she tried to remember what they had been talking about. “I left the Hanged Man. I meant to come straight here and talk with you about all this, Hawke, honest. But I was preoccupied,” she fought the urge to glance at the elf, “I mean still preoccupied, after yesterday, with Aveline, and all that happened. I sort of took a wrong turn. And then Jaxon and his men were there, and the next thing I knew, I was in the sewers meeting with Brekker. He… he knows about you and Anders. He suspected I knew, too, though I denied it. But because you’re already in a relationship, he knew he couldn’t use me. He decided I wasn’t any use to him, and he didn’t want you to know what he was up to, so he couldn’t let me go in case I came to you. He was going to have me killed, but I… I bluffed him out of it. I told him, if he killed me, it would upset Anders…”

“Quite true,” he agreed.

“…and an upset Anders would upset you…”

“No doubt,” Hawke muttered.

“…so killing me would only make matters worse.”

Hawke chewed through that convoluted, run-on sentence, one hand stroking his neatly trimmed beard. “So Brekker agreed to let you go? Just like that?”

“No, not exactly,” she sniffed, feeling the fear tighten in her chest, the tears burn behind her eyes. “First he said he’d be in touch with me, for another job, to pay off my debt to him. Didn’t say what the job would be, only that we would discuss it later. Then he said, if I talked, if I told you that he was after you, that I’d regret it. I said, he couldn’t hurt Merril or the others, that my friends were your friends, too. But he didn’t threaten them… he… he threatened… my cat… Felinus… threatened to… to skin… doorpost…” Her voice finally broke into wrenching sobs that caused her whole body to convulse.

Anders wanted to go to her, but Hawke grabbed his arm and pulled him a few steps away to converse. Instead it was Fenris, one hand on her shoulder, who soberly weathered her storm of tears and fear and heartache.

“This isn’t good,” Varric muttered quietly. “What could the Coterie want with you, Hawke? Don’t get me wrong; I know you’ve stepped on a lot of toes since your arrival here in Kirkwall, but not enough to piss them off.”

Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think over the sound of Hrodwynn’s sniffling. “I don’t even know this Brekker, or why he would be so vindictive against me.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Fenris was kneeling beside her. The elf’s eyes were watching them, listening to their conversation, even while he tried to comfort the girl. “I wish we could have someone on the inside of his organization, like he tried to do with me.”

“No,” Anders stated firmly.

Hawke tried to act astonished: open-mouthed, wide-eyed, one hand on his chest as he leaned backwards—it was anything but innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Anders continued, loud enough to carry to Hrodwynn’s ears, “And no, you’re not going to put her through that!”

“I didn’t say I’d use Hrodwynn,” he denied, hoping she would overhear, “But it would be a help, if I had someone who worked for Brekker, someone he already knew and felt he had power over, someone he thought he could use against me, someone who could instead report back to me what he was planning…”

“Over my dead body!”

“It could come to that,” Fenris countered Anders’ statement. His long, lean body was fluid and graceful as he stood, helping Hrodwynn to her feet. She was no longer crying, and though she breathed a little heavier and looked a little paler, she kept her feet—and her grip on his forearm. “This Brekker has already threatened your life, and if I’m not mistaken, it was his men who tried to rough you over yesterday afternoon. Am I right, Hrodwynn?”

She turned her stare onto him, her thoughts hidden behind eyes that glittered like gemstones, but nodded. “Jaxon, yes, the same one who stabbed me this morning.” There seemed to be an accusation somewhere in her statement, but he didn’t look too hard for it. “That’s how he found out about you two. Jaxon caught you, um…”

“The word you’re looking for is snogging,” supplied Varric with a completely straight face.

She continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “…in the alley yesterday. I recognized Jaxon when he and his men ran out and knocked us to the ground. I knew then that he’d tell Brekker, and that Brekker would know I couldn’t do the job for him. That it was impossible.”

Fenris helped her lean against a dresser, allowing her to keep her feet and her dignity, but he continued to leave his arm where she could reach it. And she didn’t let go.

“Hrodwynn doesn’t have a choice,” Fenris stated, his harsh words in contrast to his considerate actions. “She’s caught in the middle. She either has to spy on Hawke for Brekker, or spy on Brekker for Hawke.”

“No, there has to be another option,” Anders readily argued.

“Brekker has made too many threats…”

“He knows too much…”

“The Coterie has too far a reach…”

“There’s no place to hide…”

“You can’t make that decision for her…”

Their voices rose, male and strong and deep, louder and louder, a four-way argument literally over her head. Damn, but she was developing a headache, and feeling sick to her stomach, not to mention the world was nice and tipsy, and her body felt loose and warm. She blamed those last two on the brandy in her empty stomach.

She was aware of their words, even understood what was being said, but she couldn’t make herself jump in, not that they would hear the little mouse squeak that was her voice. Halfway in a daze, she stood there, propped up between a piece of furniture and an elf who hated her, and waited until voices and emotions cooled down. She waited too long.

“I still don’t like it,” Anders crossed his arms over his chest. His expression was dark, a rare occurrence on his normally gentle and understanding features.

“None of us do, I’m sure,” Hawke assured him, laying a strong and reassuring hand on his shoulder. “But we really don’t have any other choice. If she can convince Brekker that I don’t know what’s going on, and that she has a way into my mansion—through her relationship with you—then he just may agree to use her in his original plan. And she can keep me… us apprised of what that is. I’ll keep her safe, I promise; not a hair on her head.”

Anders hesitated, but he gave a nod of assent.

Yup, she’d waited too long. “Don’t I get a say?” Hrodwynn asked rhetorically.

“No,” four male voices answered in unison.

“But you don’t know Brekker,” she countered. “You don’t understand. He KNOWS things, knows everything. He’ll know I’m not really working for him.”

“He can’t know that unless…”

“He WILL!” she overrode whatever protest Hawke was about to make. She started ticking off items like she would tick off groceries on a list. “He knew you had the deed to your mansion, almost before you got it. He knows you and Anders are lovers. He knows about Merril’s late night walks through the city alone. He knows about Leandra. He knows about my cat, for the love of Andraste!”

“Hrodwynn,” Hawke’s voice grew stern and harsh, “Listen to me. Brekker doesn’t have any supernatural powers of clairvoyance.” She scoffed softly and rolled her eyes, but he pressed his hand. “Getting the deed to my mother’s family’s estate was not a private matter; I’ve been talking about it for years. He could easily have had someone on the inside, in the Viscount’s palace, watching and waiting and letting him know ahead of time when the transaction would be approved. As for Anders and I,” he tried hard not to blush, “Well, that was lucky happenstance, or rather, unlucky happenstance, that gave him that bit of information. And loads of thugs know about Merril’s innocent nocturnal habits; isn’t that right, Varric?”

“Yes,” he sighed, somewhat painfully. “That reminds me, I’ll need to double the bribe to keep her safe at night. That little Daisy is costing me a fortune…”

“As I was saying,” Hawke regained control of the conversation, “My family is also fairly public, again thanks to my attempts to regain my estate. I had to use mother’s name and status to stake my claim on the mansion.”

“But…” she sniffed, wanting to believe that Brekker wasn’t somehow using blood magic or some other means to gain this secret knowledge, to read her mind, to pry into her privacy. “…my cat?”

“You talk about him all the time,” Varric supplied, “In the Hanged Man. Wouldn’t have been hard at all for one of his thugs to have overheard the name, or guess how much your cat means to you.”

“Wynnie,” Anders took up the argument, “As much as I hate the thought of you playing the part of a spy, of the danger it would put you in, we have to admit you’re already in danger. A lot of danger. It’s either this, or you’ll have to leave Kirkwall.”

“I… I could do that…” her voice was barely above a whisper, “…I suppose… leave Kirkwall…”

“Please, don’t say that,” he took her hands in his, turning her slightly away from Fenris. “Don’t even consider it. I… I’d miss you, terribly, if you left. I’d cry for days. And my eyes would get all puffy. And Hawke wouldn't find me attractive anymore. And then I’d be all alone. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

Their reactions were varied. Hawke’s jaw dropped, Varric rolled his eyes, Fenris looked like he wanted to be sick. However it was Hrodwynn’s laughter, weak and breathy, that was entirely unexpected. “You’re such a twit,” she sighed.

“That means yes,” he declared.

“Fine,” agreed Hawke quickly, before things got even, er, mushier. “Now all that’s left to do, is figure out a way to convince Brekker that Hrodwynn can still be used, that she has access at any time to my mansion, through Anders.”

“I can do that,” she shrugged, letting go of Anders and leaning back against the dresser, “Because it’s the truth, right? I can come visit Anders at any time? Day or night?”

“Er,” Hawke hesitated, but one look at Anders took away any indecision, “Right.”

"That just leaves Jaxon." Again there was that accusing tone in her voice. "By now he's reported back to Brekker, about Fenris ambushing him and his men. Brekker will think…" 

“What?” Hawke asked after she had been quiet for a few moments.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Jaxon will tell him what he suspects, that I already told Hawke everything, but Brekker might not believe him, or at least he might be open to other options. But I’ll have to come up with some other reason why Fenris,” she added a healthy dose of venom to his name, “Was there. Something Brekker will believe. Something…”

“Embarrassing?” Varric supplied.

“You have something in mind?” Hawke asked, thinking he was going to regret Varric’s plan. He was right.

“Oh, I have an idea, something that would explain Fenris’ behavior. But no one’s gonna like it.”

“If it means Wynnie can stay in Kirkwall, she’ll do it.”

Hawke wanted to shake his head at Varric and signal him not to say it, not to get involved. He also wanted to tell Anders to take his words back, before it was too late. His hesitation—not knowing which to do first—gave Varric the advantage.

“It’s perfect,” he smiled, already mentally patting himself on his back. “It explains why Button was nervous about trying to seduce Hawke, and why Fenris was following her this morning.”

“What?” she asked, curious. Hawke turned to her next; now there were three things he wanted to do…

“You and Fenris are in love.”


	16. …Into the Fire

Five people stood around in a lopsided circle. One, an elf, stood straight and immobile, an ebony brow twitching as if indecisive on whether to curve upwards. Next to him a young woman was leaning her backside against a dresser, one hand frozen in midair as if she had been reaching for the elf, but suddenly thought better of it. Opposite them stood two men, one dark and the other fair, the dark one squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to block out the past few moments, the fair one staring in abject horror at the final member of the group. This last person, a dwarf, stood serenely in their midst, a smile on his face as if he had just solved the greatest mystery of life.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Anders burst into the silence.

Hrodwynn’s head was pounding again. The sudden statement knocked her out of her stupor and she moved her hand, away from Fenris, to hold her temple. Maker, this day could not get any worse! Not that she was tempting fate, but Varric had just suggested that she and Fenris pose as… lovers…?

“I’m not joking,” Varric answered, still calm and confident. “It makes perfect sense. Fenris, madly in love with Hrodwynn, sees her picked up by thugs. Understandably concerned, he follows her thinking she’s in trouble, and starts to fight off her captors when they emerge from the sewers. It’s the typical overprotective, jealous lover kind of character. I couldn’t have written it better myself.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Anders continued, “He HATES her!”

Hawke cleared his throat, “It’s the only way this will work.” The statement was quiet, but penetrating, and all eyes turned to him. Though he wished it could be otherwise, he knew he had to throw his weight behind Varric and convince Anders that this was the only way, convince Hrodwynn that she had to pretend to love Fenris, and convince Fenris that he had to stop denying his feelings. Maker’s breath, but this was going to be difficult. Damn Varric and his quick tongue.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Hrodwynn said, the hand that had been holding her head moving to cover her mouth.

“That’s just brandy on an empty stomach talking,” Hawke brushed aside her childish reaction, his voice growing harsh and commanding in sync with his irritation. Yes, he’d hurt her feelings, he could tell that by the stricken expression, her green eyes growing wide and watery, but she couldn’t play the child any longer. “Listen to me; all of you. This is important. I need to know why Brekker is after me and what he’s planning. You’re already involved in that, Hrodwynn, and it’s not through my doing so you can’t blame anyone but yourself.” He watched her face fall downwards, but she didn't look like she would deny it. Good. “Now, the only way for you to get out of this, is to see it through. That means convincing Brekker that you’re useful to him. Right?” After she gave a little nod, he turned to the next in line, Fenris. “You mucked that up, so you are going to have to fix it, right, even if it means playing the part of her jealous lover. I know it’s not an ideal solution,” he tried damn hard not to look at Varric; he’d lose it if he saw that smug expression on his face, “But this is the best—perhaps the only means we have of getting Hrodwynn back into Brekker’s good graces. You will be polite and attentive towards Hrodwynn. Understood?” He didn’t wait for any sort of concession from Fenris. The elf wouldn’t give it anyway; it was enough that he didn’t protest. “And you, young lady, will act demure and flattered by his attentions.” Having nailed them both to the spot, he looked to Anders next, his voice finally softening a touch. “And you must do your best to make this easier for her. That means keeping your opinions to yourself.”

Anders' face filled with bitterness before he dropped his gaze to the ground. Hawke stepped in closer to Anders, putting his hands on his shoulders. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but he had to make this work. And, maybe, somehow, if the Maker favored them, things just might turn out for the best. “I know how you must feel about all this, but for Hrodwynn’s sake as well as mine, this has to work. Don’t make it any harder for her than it has to be.”

“Actually,” Varric started dryly, “Anders fits the role of disapproving, no-man-is-good-enough-for-my-daughter, fatherly type quite nicely. What?” he added when Hawke shot him a dark and menacing look. “I’m only trying to help.”

Fenris had been quiet this whole time, mulling things over as Hawke had argued, or rather issued commands at them. He couldn’t understand why Hawke was so agreeable to Varric’s insane idea. Hawke knew he had feelings for Hrodwynn, how he feared she might develop feelings for him, how that would only drag her into danger… But she was in danger now, and it was thanks to his actions.

Vishante kaffas, but Anders was right: this had to be a joke. Or a nightmare. Or a cruel twist of fate. He couldn’t go through with this, acting as if he loved Hrodwynn… Well, alright, technically he could do that, because he did love her—resolutely he denied the impulse to glance at her. But she must hate him now; he’d certainly done his best to see to that! How could they expect her to set that aside? Better yet, how could they expect him to overcome the disgust and hatred he’d built inside her? She would flinch the first time he would try to hold her hand. She would vomit the first time he would try to kiss her. And he didn’t want to think of how she would react the first time he would try to embrace her.

Discreetly he shifted his hips, pivoting his groin away from her knees, just in case she got any ideas for a preemptive strike.

“Broody’s the only one who hasn’t voiced an opinion on this, yet,” Varric very deliberately—and maliciously Fenris was sure—put him in the crosshairs.

Hawke had tried not to look at Fenris too much during the argument, knowing what he’d see written on the elf’s face. He looked now, and saw he wasn’t that far off. Fenris looked like a guilty man walking up to the gallows, knowing his punishment was just and well-deserved. As soon as they locked eyes, Fenris wiped the expression away, turning stoic and unconcerned, before anyone else could read his features. “It’s just another job.”

It was silent for a count of three before Anders all but screamed at Fenris, “You cad! You’re not seriously suggesting you get paid for this!”

Even Hrodwynn looked horrified, as if she had taken his words the same way. She stared at his profile, angry and hurt and humiliated…

“No, of course not,” Fenris replied, far too calmly in her opinion. He didn’t look at Anders, but continued to stare at Hawke, his face impassive and unreadable. “I only mean, Hrodwynn and I have both worked for you in the past; this is just another job, only this time we have to work together. Her part is to find out what Brekker is up to. Mine is to provide a reasonable explanation for this morning’s disaster that will get her back into his organization. It’s not as if there would be real feelings or any sincere intimate actions between us.”

“Maker forbid,” she mumbled to herself, dropping her gaze to her lap. She missed the momentary flicker in his expression, the flutter at the corner of his eye, the thick swallow bobbing in his throat. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll do this. But first,” she looked with disgust at herself, “I need a wash.”

“Good idea,” agreed Varric, a little too quickly for Hawke’s liking. “You get cleaned up, then we’ll all go to the Hanged Man for a bite to eat.”

“She’s still weak,” Anders argued, “Wouldn’t it be better to go out and bring something back for her?”

“Nah, she’ll be fine,” Varric assured him. “And if not, it’ll give her and Fenris an opportunity to act all schmoozy-whoozy with each other.”

Hrodwynn coughed quietly, wary of letting Hawke hear her, “I think I did throw up a little.”

“Come on,” Anders said, taking her elbow and helping her towards the back corner of the clinic. “You can wash up back here, behind the screen, while I get you some fresh clothing.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Hawke ground out between his clenched teeth, grabbing Varric by the arm and tugging him along.

“I’ll join you,” Fenris seized the opportunity to retreat.

“Oh, no, lover-boy,” Varric wagged a finger at him, shaking off Hawke’s hold. “You stay here, inside, in case someone from Brekker’s group is watching this place already. You can’t stand to let Hrodwynn out of your sight, remember?”

Fenris, if possible, turned even colder and paler, like a statue of marble. Unlike a statue, he moved, walking as far from Hrodwynn as the room would allow. Mechanically he picked up a stool, set it in the corner, and slouched down upon it, stretching his long legs before him. With his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed over his chest, he passionately threw himself into his favorite pastime, brooding.

Anders shot him a hard look, but refrained from commenting. He finished getting Hrodwynn started and made sure that Fenris couldn’t see around the screen, before heading towards her loft for a change of clothes.

Hawke left them to it, getting ahold of Varric once more—firmer this time—and dragging him by the back of his collar from the clinic. He might have closed the door behind them a little firmer than necessary, but he was irritated. “Maker’s breath, Varric, what in the bloody Void are you doing?!”

“Ah, come one, Hawke,” he finally slipped out of his grip. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m playing matchmaker.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives,” he countered. “No, scratch that; you’re playing with fire, lyrium fed fire, provoking Fenris like that… and Anders… oh, Maker…”

“Is that what has your knickers in a twist? Anders’ feelings?”

Hawke turned slightly away, leaning his hand against the outside of the clinic as he struggled to regain control of himself. “Varric,” he began, starting carefully, “You don’t understand what’s truly going on. Fenris…”

“Fenris is in love with Hrodwynn,” he supplied, “Has been for years. Though why he’s done everything he can think of to deny it and make her hate him, is beyond me.”

“He’s afraid for her,” Hawke answered. He supposed on some level he should probably have registered surprise at Varric’s insightfulness, but he was too used to the dwarf’s ability to read a person’s character. “Yes, Fenris loves her; he has practically since the first moment they met. But he believes his life is in danger, so long as Danarius is alive and hunting him. He doesn’t want to share that danger with anyone, especially a young woman he loves.”

Hawke may not have been surprised at Varric’s insightfulness, but Varric was surprised at his. “So, er, how long have you known about his feelings?” he asked carefully, not wanting to bring up a sensitive subject—such as Hawke’s little brother.

Hawke had no qualms about it, but he did take a deep breath before answering. “Since our little adventure at the Bone Pit Mine. Why do you think I threw Carver at her?”

For the second time in as many moments, Varric was surprised. “Come again? You made Carver love Hrodwynn?”

“In a manner of speaking. On the way to the mine, Fenris confided in me his feelings for Hrodwynn, and his fear that she might be starting to return those feelings. He didn’t want her to get hurt, caught in the crossfire, should Danarius come after him. He asked for my help to discourage or distract her, which I agreed to do. I knew Carver had a crush on her, so I started bullying him to leave her alone, knowing it would have the adverse effect and make him pursue her all the more.”

“And Hrodwynn, of course, was flattered by Carver’s attention and returned his affection, falling madly in love,” the storyteller in Varric ran away with the idea.

“Oh, I don’t think she loved him,” Hawke mused, “Not as much as he loved her, at any rate. But I don’t think he ever figured it out. And it was a comfort to him, believing that she loved him, right up to the end.”

The conversation got depressingly sober, making Varric look for some way to lighten it. “Damn, Hawke, pulling a sneaky stunt like that; you’ve got no call getting upset over my tactics.”

“I’m not upset over your tactics, no, but over your whole plan. Pushing the two of them together, when all he’s done for the past three years is to try to make her hate him…”

“Which is why I’m stepping in now,” Varric interrupted. “Like you said, it’s been three years; I think Fenris is in the clear. Oh, sure, Danarius is probably still hunting him, but he’s lost the scent, probably thinking that Fenris left Kirkwall after those last hunters failed. Danarius will never track him down now. So, why not let Broody find a little happiness? He’s earned it.”

“And Hrodwynn? What makes you think she can love him, after all he’s done?”

“She’s just confused,” Varric waved her emotions aside. “Once he starts paying her attention, proper attention, she’ll start to develop better feelings towards him. At least, that’s my hope. Otherwise…” he sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, staring at the clinic door as if he could see through the wood, “They do love each other; I’m sure of it. But if Fenris keeps hurting her, they’re going to end up hating each other—loving each other deep underneath it all, but hating just as passionately. That’s not the good kind of relationship to have, you know. So, maybe, just maybe, if they have to pretend to be nice towards each other, maybe that’ll rub off and they can start, well, actually being nice towards each other. It’s the only chance they’ve got, Hawke, before it’s too late.”

He wanted to argue, he wanted to find another way, he wanted… But he had to admit, Varric was right. “Maker’s breath,” he sighed, “I pray you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” Varric gave a harsh exhale, “So do I.”

Hrodwynn had no idea what Hawke and Varric were talking about. She was tired, dizzy, the alcohol making her feel warm and fuzzy, and the whole bloody situation with Fenris making her feel…

She paused, a towel covering half her face, one dark green eye peeking out to stare at nothing. In thinking about it, standing quietly all by herself, with no one bantering over her head or making plans for her life, with time to think about Fenris and her feelings… she didn’t know what she felt. Other than numb; she definitely felt numb. She supposed she had every right to feel numb, perhaps a little shock added to the mixture for good measure. She had certainly earned it.

Her fingers dug into her scalp as she toweled her hair dry, staring at the mess around her. Three buckets of water sat used, muddied and clouded with, well, something she didn’t want to think about. Several towels were soiled with the same gore, laying forgotten or ignored on the floor. Her clothing she regarded as a lost cause, the tunic ripped and both it and her leggings sticky and stained with half-dried blood. She didn’t even want to try to save them, bundling them up together and tossing them into the corner. She’d discard them later, after she was feeling better.

Anders had draped her spare pair of leggings over the top of the screen, along with an emerald shirt that perfectly matched her eyes. Having washed off her skin and cleaned her hair, she turned to put on the fresh clothes. Maker, but it felt good, enjoying stretching the soft leather hugging her hips and thighs, and taking advantage of the freedom that a loose-fitting linen tunic could bring, all without the ickiness that was on the spoiled clothing and had been making her skin crawl. She picked up her boots with trepidation, but thankfully they had remained mostly untouched by the, er, mess. A few quick swipes with a towel, and she could at last finish dressing to emerge from behind the screen.

Both Anders and Fenris were waiting for her, Fenris because he had to, Anders because, well, because he was Anders. She smiled for him, a shadow of her usual snarky grin, but it was enough to let him know she was doing alright. He gave her a bit of a relieved sort of smile and nodded his head. Then she looked further to Fenris, saw his long-limbed body moving with feral grace as he stood up, and felt a small jolt of something race through her chest. Fear, she decided, or apprehension, or doubt that she could pull this off. Just the thought of that body close to hers, of what Fenris was capable of, of how he felt and acted towards her…

“Wynnie!” Anders’ voice was alarmed, seeing her face turn pale as she stumbled the last few steps towards him. The next moment he was there, holding her arms, steering her towards a chair. “You’re too weak for this. I knew it. Stay here. I’ll tell Varric and Hawke we’re not coming.”

“No, Anders,” she gripped his arms, preventing him from setting her down or slipping away, “It’s alright. I’m alright. Just tired, is all. Like you said, a good meal will do me wonders. That’s all I need. A nice hot meal.”

“And you think you’ll find a good meal at the Hanged Man?”

She gave a weak laugh, “It’ll be better than your cooking, at any rate. And I know you won’t let me cook, not in the state I’m in.”

Anders hummed. “You’re right about that.” He straightened up, looking down his nose at her, his gentle eyes calculating as they swept her over from head to toe. “Oh, very well, let’s get this over with. You! Elf! Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come here and take your ‘love’s’ hand?”

Fenris rather meekly obliged, extremely out of character. Hrodwynn couldn’t look at him, however—couldn’t lift her eyes higher than his waist. He had gotten his belt back, the dark material hiding the stain she knew had to be there. Her blood. On his belt. On his armor. She held herself very stiff as his hands, gauntleted once more, reached out to take over from Anders. It was a miracle she didn’t flinch as his warm skin touched hers.

Fenris felt the rigid tension in her body. Venhedis, but this wasn’t going to work. He tried to think of something to say, something that would reassure her or ease her anxieties—something that would excuse the past three years. “We should get going. Could you step outside and ask Hawke if there’s anyone watching the clinic?” It wasn’t exactly what he intended to say, but it should get rid of Anders long enough for him to say something else to her. Anders looked like he was going to object, so Fenris added, “We’ll be coming behind you, just a little slower, and it would be good to know if we have to start the charade in earnest, or if we can take our time getting used to this.”

“Please,” she added her voice to his when Anders seemed to hesitate.

“Yes, well,” Anders cleared his throat, “I’ll just step outside, then.”

Hrodwynn watched him go, still unable to look at Fenris. She started to take a step after him, but Fenris didn’t move, making her have to abandon her step or risk falling over. With his grip so tight on her forearm, she had no choice but to lean back towards him. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting…”

“Just for a moment,” he cut over her protest, his words soft despite the eternal coarseness of his voice. Maker, what was he about to do? “I… Hrodwynn… I know you hate me…”

“Only as much as you hate me,” she fired back at him.

If anything, the spark of defiance, the quickness of her wit, reassured him. And just as quickly saddened him. If only her words could be true; if only they lived in a world where there was a chance for them. He didn’t want to love anyone—to be loved by anyone—not until he was free, not until Danarius lay dead at his feet. But she was tempting, had always been too damn tempting, and this implausible situation gave him the opportunity to…

Maker, he prayed, did he dare let himself indulge in a dream…

“Believe me, Hrodwynn, the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. I know I’ve… I’ve hurt you… in the past… and I’m… sorry for it.”

She finally looked at him, finally lifted her eyes to meet his, her lively green orbs flickering back and forth between his dead and dull green ones. “I bet that had to hurt to say.”

There remained a wall in her expression, a protective barrier to keep him out, keep him from hurting her again and again and again. There was old pain in her voice, however, pain that couldn’t be wiped out in a single moment. Yet for her sake, he had to try. One hand moved to her face, cupping it, gently pressing the unarmored part of his palm and fingers to her cheek. “More than you could know,” he admitted, sincerely. Before she could ponder this statement, he continued, “I’ll try to make this as easy for you as possible. I promise I won’t do anything if it will make you feel uncomfortable. Just tell me, and I’ll stop. I swear to it.”

Her eyes continued to flicker, searching for something in his gaze, something in his soul, that would explain his sudden change in behavior. “Why?”

She watched those ebony brows curl and twist above his eyes. Yet he didn’t answer her, instead dropping his hand away from her face and starting them towards the door.

“Ah, there you are,” boomed Varric, his voice easily carrying out into the street. “All set? Good, then let’s get going. I’m starving.”

Hawke took one look at the two of them before he started for the Hanged Man, muttering, “Maker preserve us.”

“Here, here,” agreed Anders.

Varric kept up a light banter along the way, his quick wit and easy charm helping to put everyone at ease. Everyone except Hrodwynn. Her mind was preoccupied with the enigma walking beside her. She could remember, when they first met, how she likened Fenris to a wild animal that had been trapped, caged, abused, and then suddenly freed. That part of him was constant, the animalistic economy of movement, the predatory awareness of his surroundings, the sheer unfettered energy rolling off of him like a physical wind. Nowadays it frightened her, as that sharp tongue and threatening presence was often directed at her. But back then, before the Deep Roads, before Carver, she had found this quality… exciting? Intriguing? Unique?

And just a moment ago, standing in the clinic alone with him, she had felt something stir within her, a kind of excitement, a rush of adrenaline. If only she could convince herself it was due to that dangerous and savage quality, and nothing else.

“We’ve got trouble,” Varric said so softly, she didn’t hear him.

“What is it?” Hawke asked, fearing the worst.

“We’re being followed,” Fenris answered, also aware of the danger, “Ever since the clinic.”

“What do we do?” Anders tried not to look around, but it was too tempting. Hawke, thankfully, stepped into his line of sight and kept him from blowing their cover.

“We continue on to the Hanged Man,” Varric answered, before adding even more quietly over his shoulder. “You two start hanging back, just enough to, well, I’ll leave that part up to the two of you. But make it convincing, will ya? Then catch up with us before we reached the tavern.”

“Understood,” agreed Fenris.

Hrodwynn was finally starting to realize something was happening. She grew nervous, scared, listening to them talk, yet again deciding her fate for her. Abandoning her to an elf who hated her. That strange twinge again gripped her heart, and the palms of her hands suddenly felt very, very sweaty.

Yet Fenris was stoic, his steps slowing, allowing the others to pull ahead of them. He had answered Varric’s suggestion with a calm and emotionless tone, like he was taking orders during a job. ‘Circle behind that hill and flank them.’ ‘Attack from the front while I fire from the rear.’

‘Fall back and snog with Hrodwynn.’

“Maker,” she whispered, feeling herself start to tremble. She tried, she honestly tried to convince herself this was just another job, a part to play, and it didn't have to be that bad, he’d promised to stop if she asked him to…

“Hrodwynn, you’re not helping matters.”

“What?” she asked, louder than the whisper he had uttered out of the side of his mouth.

“Relax.” He slowed their steps even further, right down to a stop, and turned to take both her arms in his hands. Carefully, as if he was handling fine crystal, he guided her backwards until she felt the solidness of a stone wall behind her. “Better?”

It was and it wasn’t. She had a nice, strong, sturdy wall to support her, but she was also feeling cornered, Fenris between her and the retreating backs of Anders and the others. “We shouldn’t take too long…”

“We’ll take just long enough,” he answered. Damning himself, knowing full well he was taking selfish advantage of the situation, of her troubles, giving himself the excuse to kiss her, just once, just to see…

“I don’t see them,” she whispered, her eyes scanning far too quickly to notice the thugs, even if she happened to look right at them. “You said we were being followed, but where are they?”

“Over my left shoulder,” he supplied, and suppressed the smile when her eyes moved to her left. “MY left.”

“Oh,” she shot her eyes in the other direction, her cheeks turning pink again, “Right. I mean, left. Your left, my right.”

“You’re babbling.”

She peeked past his ragged mop of hair to the other side of the street. “I’m nervous,” she responded, distracted by the sight of four Coterie thugs, one of which was the large woman she remembered from… had it only been yesterday? Thankfully there was no sign of Jaxon, but the thugs there were watching her and Fenris very closely.

“Do you need me to stop?”

She pulled her eyes away from the thugs to look at Fenris. Had he really just offered…? Was he serious…? Would he step back without…?

“It would be more convincing if we did kiss,” he argued mildly, “But not necessary. I could simply stand here and touch your face, like this,” his hand was back, this time caressing her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing across her skin with an electrifying tingle. “It’s up to you.”

Up to me, she repeated to herself. She could ask him, and he would stop. But did she need him to stop, or was it only a want? She could almost feel that large woman’s eyes on her, taking in every detail to report back to Brekker. That gave her the answer. Hawke needed her to spy on Brekker. She needed Fenris for an alibi. She put her hand over Fenris’ and said very softly, “I need you to kiss me.”

Some sort of emotion swept across his face, gone almost before it came, an expression she had seen once before, when he had taken his first taste of Agreggio Pavali. His hand in hers, he tilted her head, just a little, while he tilted his head the other way. They were of the same height, he barefoot and she in her heeled boots, so all he had to do was lean forwards.

Hrodwynn had been kissed before. There was Carver, certainly, her first; loads of kissing and even some petting with him, though he’d never—what did he used to say?—taken her to see Ferelden. Since him, there’d been two or three boys she had flirted with, mostly because they showed interest in her, but they had never lasted very long nor gone very far. So in all her meager experience, there was nothing that could have prepared her for this.

Fenris’ lips were warm and comfortable, a conflict of firm softness, of resilient muscle, of purposeful indolence. He kept still, merely pressing his flesh against hers, nothing untoward or forceful or invasive. It was careful, timid, like dipping a toe in the water before diving in, though in this case she felt he had no intention of making that dive. He kept the two of them together for a little while, his hand holding her head in place.

Then he pulled away.

Cold. That was her first impression, after his lips left hers. She felt cold without him there, and instinctively her body leaned forwards, seeking that warmth she had lost.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice sounding alarmed when he saw her waver.

“Wha…?” She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—to find him staring at her, ebony brows drawn with concern. She realized that she had been about to put her arms around him, and stalled for time while she tried to think of something to say. “I…” she had to clear her throat and try again, “Er, I think so, I, um, I mean…”

“Still a little lightheaded from this morning?” he offered her an excuse for her embarrassing actions, like he did yesterday, when he came across her sporting a bloodied lip and bruised ribs. She didn’t bother to try to discern if he was being honestly solicitous, or if he somehow knew exactly how and why she had reacted so… She couldn’t find a word for it. Feeling her cheeks flush, she dropped her face and nodded, unable to trust herself to speak.

He’d done it, he crowed to himself. He’d kissed her without causing her to swing at him in anger. They’d shared a moment, a first kiss, however brief. And it was pleasurable for them both, judging by the way she had closed her eyes and leaned into him. Just as quickly as he felt his triumph, he felt it sour, thinking how it had been built upon a lie. Cursing himself for toying with her, he took half a step back. “We should catch up with the others.”

She blinked at him, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet them. “Right,” she took a deep breath, and he refused to watch the way her bosom strained the laces above her cleavage. “I am feeling a bit peckish.”

“Come along then,” he took her arm, holding on to her as if her life depended on it, which in a way it did. He could see out of the corner of his eye the thugs breaking up, leaving only one behind to tail them. He hoped that meant they bought the act.

The act that wasn’t an act. Maker have mercy on his soul.

* * *

Hrodwynn was tired. Beyond tired. She sat down on the couch in front of the fire with the intention of never stirring from that spot.

“Is there anything I can get you? A cup of wine? Something more to eat?”

She shook her head, too tired to verbally answer Fenris. Her stomach felt full to bursting, Anders having set plate after plate of food in front of her all afternoon. He said she needed to eat so her body could replace the blood she had lost. Then he announced she needed to rest. That’s when she and Fenris left the Hanged Man. Alone.

She hardly remembered how they got to his mansion, only that they arrived in one piece and, he claimed, without being followed. It wasn’t that she trusted him, it was simply that she was too tired to give a bloody shit!

“A blanket perhaps? Or a pillow?”

“I’m fine,” she moaned softly, his insistent attention finally making her mad enough to muster the energy to speak. “I just want to sit here for a bit.”

Cassia took that moment to appear, seemingly out of the shadows, her brown fur an excellent camouflage. She bounded up onto the couch next to Hrodwynn with a fluidity of movement that reminded her of how Fenris moved. She reached out a hand to pet the furry body, feeling as well as hearing the rumbling purr as Cassia leaned into the touch.

“Anders said he would come by in the morning with your cat.”

“I remember,” she mumbled, thinking it odd, how much the normally taciturn elf was currently babbling. But at least now he seemed out of things to say, his words falling into silence. Of course, that didn’t mean he was quiet. She could hear him, moving around, somewhere behind her, but she had no idea what he was doing. Nor did she care. Cassia had crawled onto her lap, kneaded her thighs a few times before curling up to nap. She was so soft and warm, her purring so soothing and constant…

Fenris watched her slump against the side of the couch, her hand still on his cat. He wasn’t surprised; in fact, he was thankful they had made it to his home before she passed out. Still, he wished she could have waited until after he finished straightening his bed.

Venhedis, but that sounded bad, even in his own head, regardless of how innocent the thought had been intended. He only ever used this one room in his mansion, and he’d never entertained visitors before tonight… well, except for that one other time Hrodwynn spent the night. Yet that had been three years ago, and the other bedchambers had remained unused since then, so his was the only usable bed in the whole estate. He was making it up for her, thinking she’d sleep better there than on the couch.

But she was fast asleep, the stress and the blood loss and the warm meal all taking their toll on her young body. He walked up behind her, quietly, to watch her sleep. Just for a moment. Just to reassure himself that she was alright. He stood there, staring down at her, captivated by the vision, before he knelt beside the couch.

Hrodwynn’s dark red hair lay in haphazard lengths, falling in front as well as behind her face. He gently brushed a strand that was covering her eyes, revealing them to indeed be closed, her dark eyelashes laying long and curled just above her cheek. He touched the side of her face next, encouraged by the rosy color and warmth of her skin, so far removed from the grayness she had sported that morning, or the coolness he had felt when he kissed her. His gaze lowered to her lips, to that red that rivaled Agreggio Pavali. She had tasted so sweet this afternoon, so pure and honest, and he hadn’t even delved inside, slipped between those lips to the mystery within.

Nor should he. Ever. He was still an escaped slave; nothing could change that. For the rest of his life he would have to live with that hanging over his head. Even if he somehow found and killed Danarius, it couldn’t change the fact that he had lyrium seared into his flesh in a distinctive pattern. One look at him, and people would know what he was, what he had been, what he could never escape.

He may have left his master, but he could never lose the shackles, not when they penetrated bone deep.

He came out of his dark musing to find her still asleep, peacefully ignorant of the brooding elf looming over her. Feeling the lecher, he set aside any thought or dream for a normal life and put his hands on her. Cassia noticed him, her purrs growing louder, turning from contentment to warning, adding an irritated flick of the tip of her tail for good measure. Fenris ignored her, his focus on the woman, trying his best not to wake her as he slipped his arms beneath her body. Satisfied with his grip, he stood, lifting her with him, cat and all.

Hrodwynn remained asleep.

Carefully, deliberately, he carried her to his bed. He settled her onto the mattress, stretching her body out so she would be more comfortable. Cassia jumped from Hrodwynn to the bed, setting herself near the corner, her greenish-gold eyes watching Fenris closely. Under her scrutiny, he somehow felt very guilty over what he was about to do. Cautiously he undid the buckle of Hrodwynn’s belt and pulled her tunic free from her waistband. Next he twisted to reach her boots and tug them from her feet, gently so as not to wake her. He stood up to admire his handiwork, decided she should be comfortable enough, and walked to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up, tucking it in around her slumbering body, securing her for the night.

Cassia continued to watch him, her eyes never seeming to blink, as he turned away and headed for the other side of the room. Satisfied that he was done messing with Hrodwynn, she resumed her perch and curled up on top of her newly-rediscovered-old-friend, leaving Fenris alone on the couch.

Hrodwynn hadn’t been aware that she had fallen asleep. But when she woke, she was startled to find herself in a dark and unfamiliar room. She felt confined, her movements restricted by a blanket she couldn’t see. It was a feeling that reminded her all too much of something she had recently experienced—Jaxon holding her still while his blade spilled her blood. Immediately she panicked, whimpering, struggling to free herself, her eyes straining to make out anything in the darkness. There was a sound nearby, some sort of growl, and thoughts of wild animals filled her sleep-addled mind. Again she cried out, a little louder, unable to keep the fear silent, and made one last effort to free herself.

She felt her body spin, fall, and land so suddenly it knocked the air out of her. It didn’t help that she struck something, hard and poking directly into her ribs, though somehow cushioned. It was too familiar, falling through the air into darkness, the pain in her ribs, unable to breathe. Jaxon was there, somewhere in the shadows, she was sure of it! She coughed, gasped, and opened her mouth to scream.

“Hrodwynn!” a harsh voice called. There was a glow, on the edge of her vision, and eery bluish-white. The glow should be scaring her, she thought, but as it neared she grew oddly comforted.

Fenris was coming to save her, as he had done before.

She gasped again, swallowing the scream, and almost gagged on a wad of saliva that her befuddled mind thought was blood. That was what had happened, Jaxon stabbed her, she fell through darkness, Fenris caught her, but she was bleeding… dying… unable to feel… to move…

“Hrodwynn?”

He came into view, his markings glowing on the edge of being invoked, giving soft and wavering light to his arms and torso. He leaned over her, his hands reaching out to touch her, but she couldn’t feel him. It was like she was numb, wrapped in thick wool and cocooned from all sensations. Her throat rattled as she struggled to take in air, her chest feeling tight and restricted…

Fenris had been woken by the noises Hrodwynn made, immediately growing alarmed and preparing himself for a fight. He jumped up from the couch and vaulted himself towards the bed before he saw she wasn’t there. Panicked for a moment, he spun around, his eyes tearing through the whole room, before he saw Cassia race out from beneath the bed. Cautiously he crept around the foot until he could see the other side. He took one look at her and immediately knew what was wrong.

Slowly he approached her, calling her name, his hands held out to offer calm and comfort. He saw how she had flailed in her sleep, twisting the blanket around her form, causing her to fall off the bed and grow even more entangled to the point where she could barely move. She was scared, confused, possibly having woken from a nightmare. He didn’t want to add to her fear, so he moved carefully, staying clearly within her vision, holding the gaze of her wide eyes and willing her to trust him, to resist the scream that was echoing behind her gaping mouth.

His hands found a corner of the blanket, and he began unravelling it from around her.

By some miracle of willpower she managed to hold herself still. Or perhaps it was due to the shifting light of the lyrium, glimmering mesmerizingly before her eyes. Fenris was, well, not naked, thankfully, the glow disappearing at his hips into his leggings, but he was not wearing his tunic. She couldn’t help but see—lines, curves, dots, swirling and flowing and pulling her gaze from his shoulders to his stomach. They shimmered as he flexed his chest, they danced as he moved his arms, they spun as he pulled the last of the blanket from her and rolled her onto her side.

She rolled back, immediately, pushing herself to sit up, thankful to be able to move, to be able to feel, to be able to breathe. Her hand felt something hard, right where her ribs had been lying on the floor, and she looked to see that what she thought had been Jaxon’s knife turned out to be the heel of her boot. A stuttering laugh erupted from her chest, burbling and bubbling, adversely threatening to grow into hysterics now that the scare was over.

A hand touched her shoulder, warm through her tunic, and she turned back to find Fenris looking at her with concern. “It’s over, Hrodwynn. It was just a dream. You’re alright now. Safe. Remember?”

If he had been confused earlier when he found she had rolled off the bed, he was downright shocked when she gave a small cry and fell into his arms. Not so much that she trusted him—that she looked to him for comfort, but that he could ignore the pain and enthusiastically return the embrace.

Fasta vass, but it was too easy, felt too good, sitting there on the floor, her legs to either side of his knees, her arms holding his shoulders fiercely, her head tucked beneath his chin. Even though she trembled, even though she continued to fight off the lingering nightmare, even though she thought he hated her… Maker! but he had longed for this. How simple it would be, he postulated, to go from kissing her hair to kissing her lips, from holding her on his lap to holding her beneath his hips. The blanket was beside them, soft and rumpled, a perfect nest for two lovers. All he’d have to do was lean over a little, bring her with him, stretch his body over hers, encourage her to open to him and…

Fenris had done a lot of things in his life, what he could remember of it, things that were defiant and contrary to what was normally acceptable behavior. He had put to death an entire village that had shown him nothing but empathy. He had escaped a harsh and brutal master who had owned him body and soul. He had lain with a man—a mage—the ultimate proof of his freedom, and taken great pleasure from the fact.

But he would not do this.

Hrodwynn felt his muscles flex and strain, yet he seemed unaffected by the effort it took to lift her from the floor and replace her on the bed. She felt him pull away, and instinctively she held on tighter, not wanting to lose his warmth, his comfort, his companionship. A whimper escaped her lips, and she heard an answering whisper from his, “Festis bei umo canavarum.” _*You will be the death of me*_

Then he slipped from her grasp.

“Fenris?” she said more clearly, pushing herself up onto one elbow to follow him with her eyes. But he didn’t go far. Hating himself, hating every selfish intention and calculated movement and dreadful desire, he picked up the blanket and returned to the bed. Wordlessly he placed it over her, straightening it, tucking it in at the foot of the bed. As he walked around to the other side, she rolled onto her back to keep her eyes on him, the green orbs seeming to glow with a power akin to his lyrium brands. He endured her scrutiny as he picked up the edge of the blanket and crawled beneath it.

She gave a small cry of triumph, like a child who had just found their favorite toy, and squirmed back to his side. Within a few moments she was back asleep, peaceful and content, her head pillowed on his chest, one arm draped securely and possessively across his waist and hips. Fenris, however, remained awake, not because the lyrium markings hurt to be touched, not because he hated himself and his actions and motives, but because he knew this was one dream that could never be.

And he didn’t want to lose a moment of it to sleep.


	17. Despite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been so long since the last update, and I know I was supposed to have updated this before the end of the year. My only excuse is: I lost a lot of time spending the holidays being violently ill D:  
> But I’m back now, so let’s get back to Fenris and Hrodwynn. Let’s see, the last time we left them, they were in bed together…

Despite his best efforts, he dozed off.

Fenris woke with a blink, a small and silent movement. He didn’t move right away, taking the time to assess his surroundings, sending his senses outwards to penetrate the entire room. He was not alone.

Obviously. Hrodwynn was where she had fallen asleep the night before, her head on his chest, her arm around his waist. Her weight was heavy and unresponsive, and he knew she remained in a deep and peaceful sleep despite the pale light of dawn slipping past the crack in the drapes. He also knew that would change, if she woke to find the two of them in bed together. She may or may not remember her nightmare last night, or tangling herself in the blanket and falling off the bed, or even the way she inarticulately communicated her need for companionship. But she would remember his hurtful actions over the past three years. One evening of kindness would not erase those sins.

It was getting harder and harder to remind himself that he didn’t want to erase the hate. For her own good.

He did have to get up, however, and not just because he didn’t want her to catch him. Carefully he eased her arm off of his waist, shifting his hips away and trying desperately to ignore the tightness in the front of his leggings. Free of her arm, he worked on sliding his chest out from beneath her head, slipping a pillow into his place. The bed creaked a little as he backed away and stood, never taking his eyes off of her, ensuring the blanket remained warm and snug across her shoulders. She hummed a little, but her eyes stayed closed, her features at peace, and he knew she was still asleep.

His cat, Cassia, had given up her protective perch sometime during the night, probably after Hrodwynn’s nightmare, and was currently nowhere to be seen. He didn’t worry about her, knowing she had full run of the mansion, and of the mice that liked to roam in the unused rooms. He left her to her own devices, and focused on his own, pressing needs. He set aside a couple of leftover pasties to warm by the fire, before he padded out of the bedchamber.

He made it to the water closet at the end of the hall and entered with a sigh of relief. He belatedly remembered to close the door behind him, in case Hrodwynn woke up and came looking for him. It wouldn’t do, to have her walk in on him while he was indisposed. Last night, he had come to the conclusion that a lot of his habits were going to have to change—and not just leaving the doors open to private areas. After she’d first fallen asleep, he had taken the opportunity to clean his armor, leaving it to hang here in the water closet. He had gotten almost all the way back to the bedchamber before realizing he wasn’t wearing anything. At all. Not something he normally concerned himself with, as he was the only one living in the mansion and he rarely if ever had visitors, but if Hrodwynn was going to be staying with him for any length of time…

Lucky for him, his grafted spirit hide armor was easy to clean and dried quickly, allowing him to wear his leggings—at least—last night.

Still, he didn’t fool himself. He had tried to, yesterday, thinking about selfishly indulging in the forbidden dream while he had the perfect alibi, allowing himself to care—to love—without putting her in any danger or creating within her any reciprocating feelings. But he realized this morning, in the full light of day and with a fuller bladder, that there could never be anything between himself and Hrodwynn.

Despite the obvious fact that he wanted it.

“Venhedis,” he swore softly, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing a fist against the wall. This was difficult, getting control of his emotions—of his body—even just long enough to take a piss.

He managed it for the most part, despite the morning wood, though it had taken longer than warranted. He grabbed his tunic from where it had been hanging all night and left the chamber, his thoughts on breakfast and wondering if he should wake Hrodwynn or let her sleep. Suddenly he heard the sound of the front door opening. He backtracked a few paces and twisted until he could see down the stairs. He didn’t fear an attack, not at this time of day and not so boldly from the front entrance, but he didn’t know who would be visiting him. Not until he heard the practiced, pouty and petulant tones of Isabela.

“I can see your feet on the landing, Fenris. Come down here and take this greatsword off of my hands.”

“Good morning, Isabela,” he acknowledged, sounding almost cheerful as he shrugged into his tunic. He didn’t bother to fasten it closed as he strode down the stairs. “What brings you here so early in the morning.”

“Just what I said,” she grunted as she thumped the heavy sword against the railing. Immediately it teetered, as if moving in slow motion, threatening to crash to the floor.

With reflexes honed from years of danger and hardship, Fenris skipped the last few steps and jumped over the railing after the sword. It smacked into an old dusty table, the struck metal ringing loudly in the empty mansion. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, catching it on the rebound, wrestling it upright and keeping it from making any more noise.

Isabela went on as if a near catastrophe had never happened. She sauntered away, calling back to him over her shoulder as she did so. “I got tired of staring at that thing. At the tavern. In my room.” She sounded cross, but the pout on her lips was insincere.

Fenris wasn’t impressed by her act, though he decided to remain cautious until he knew what she was after. “Thank you for bringing this by,” he effortlessly lifted the greatsword and set it down more securely across top of the table before turning back to her. “I know I should have picked it up last night, but I had my hands full with Hrodwynn. I was going to collect it today when she and I returned to the Hanged Man.”

She gave up the pout to smirk, taking the time to get a better look at the opened front of his tunic, and at the bulge in his leggings that had remained despite his hardest efforts. Her eyes swept back up to his face, but he refused to allow any sign of guilt to mar his features. “It’s alright. I was just in the neighborhood, and thought I would save you a trip.”

“Bull shit.”

She laughed, dark and sultry, neither one of them fooled.

“Alright,” she sighed, her bosom moving provocatively, her eyes sparkling with dark and private enjoyment, “Let’s say, I thought I’d stop by and see how your babysitting job was going. She is such an innocent child…”

“She’s not an innocent chi…” he defended, not seeing the trap in time.

“Oh, she’s no longer innocent, is she? That was fast.” She tsked her tongue, wagging a finger beneath his nose. “And what will Anders say, when I tell him you deflowered his little Wynnie?”

Fenris let out a low growl, playful, sensing Isabela was only teasing, but her words hit closer to the truth—to his secret desires—than he wanted to admit. He had to distract her, before she got it in her head and started goading him—or Hrodwynn—mercilessly. Luckily, he knew exactly how to do that. In half a heartbeat he was right in front of her, taking hold of her upper arms roughly, adding a little shake that tilted her head back invitingly. He bypassed the full and rosy lips in favor of the vein throbbing on her neck.

Her skin was smooth and firm, warmed by her heated blood, and with a hint of salt that reminded him of the sea, something he always found laden with unsavory undertones. He buried his nose in her hair, caught up within her brightly colored scarf, and discovered an undercurrent of embrium. Much better, something lightly floral and surprisingly feminine, reminding him of a sunlit summer meadow.

When he pulled back, her cheeks were slightly flushed. “Not the response I expected,” she grudgingly admitted, feeling how her body responded so readily to his rough and tender treatment. She had come all the way here to satisfy her curiosity, however, and wasn't about to allow herself to get distracted… yet. “This little job must be more trying than one would think.”

“You simply cannot imagine,” he answered honestly, leaning forwards once more, trying to distract her with more suggestions of sex.

“Ah,” she patted his cheek, a little placatingly, freezing him mid motion, “My poor baby. Where is she, by the way?” Her eyes scanned the room as she turned away.

“Upstairs,” he let her go with only a token amount of resistance. He wanted her to think he was interested in her, but not that he was desperate or feeling frustration over Hrodwynn. The less she suspected that he had feelings for Hrodwynn, the less trouble—or embarrassment—she could cause him—them. Venhedis, this was getting complicated. “Still asleep.”

Isabela idly walked across the main hall, her hips swaying as if she was on the deck of a ship. She stopped when she reached an old dresser sitting against the wall. Resting her backside against the piece of furniture, she hummed, a sound that was more growl than purr, “So, essentially we’re alone then?”

She was playing a game of hot and cold, of cat and mouse, of acting inviting before turning him down. “For all intents,” he couldn’t help the way his voice sounded hoarse and gravely and slightly out of breath, “And… purposes.” He deliberately started for her, his hands out at his sides as if he was trying to catch a stray cat.

She laughed, low and soft and far more masculine than her bosom would suggest. “Oh, I am tempted. But,” she slipped past him before he could put his hands on her, “You and Hrodwynn are supposed to be an item, and I wouldn’t want to be the one who blew your cover. Or hers. I do like her.”

“We all do,” he agreed, wondering whether or not he should give chase again. Her body and actions kept saying she wanted him to pursue her, but her mouth and words kept bringing up Hrodwynn. Isabela wasn’t usually this confusing, frustrating yes, a damnable tease always, but not contrary and confusing.

“Don’t lie to me,” she spun on her heeled boots, shaking that finger at him again. All teasing had been set aside, her expression serious, her tone stern. “I know how you feel about her; we ALL know how you feel about her.”

Venhedis, he swore to himself yet again, resisting the urge to swallow guiltily. If she knew how he felt… if she wasn’t teasing him… He began to wonder where he had misstepped, how he could have allowed his true feelings to show. “You… do?”

She crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. “Of course, you’ve made your feelings towards her plain enough over the past couple of years, with the way you treat her so poorly. But you can’t let that interfere now.”

He stopped. Apparently she didn’t know how he truly felt towards Hrodwynn. Before he could register the feeling of relief, her words continued.

“Too much is at stake. Even if you care nothing for Hrodwynn, even if you’d rather see her dead, you have to keep up appearances—for Hawke’s sake. I know you feel something towards him,” she sidled up to him, since he was currently frozen with indecision and shock, “Or, you did, once.”

She slipped her hands inside his tunic. The burn of her touch against his chest, his markings, knocked him out of his stupor. With lightening fast reflexes he grabbed her wrists, not to pull her off of him, but to keep her fingers from wandering further, keeping the palms of her hands hovering over his nipples. “I still do,” he admitted, back to teasing now that he’d determined there was no danger of Isabela discovering the truth. He waited for her surprised expression before clarifying, “Friendship.”

She laughed again. “Fair enough.”

“Who put you up to this?”

She tried to widen her eyes innocently, but he only tightened his grip on her wrists. The strength in his fingers teetered on the edge where pain could be enjoyable, and where it could not. Isabela moved closer to him, pressing her front against his, trapping their hands between them, trapping the bulge in his leggings against her groin. She was again distracting him with sex, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned forwards as if he was going to kiss her, but instead repeated his question, “Who put you up to this?”

She pouted, disappointed she couldn’t throw him off the scent, and answered, “Merril. After Varric explained to us all last night why the two of you were pretending to be together, Merril got a little… agitated. She, too, knows how cruel you can be, in both words and actions. She’s faced your ire regularly enough.”

Fenris was immune to the sting of the reprimand, sure of his convictions in ways others refused to even consider. “Merril boldly embraces blood magic…”

“We’re not talking about Merril right now,” she reminded him, not wanting to get off subject. She knew she shouldn’t have brought up Merril, but he had asked. She pouted again, despite knowing that their little game wasn’t going anywhere, and continued. “We’re talking about Hrodwynn. Though I suppose there’s very little difference in your eyes. What did happen, by the way, that put you off to her? I thought, at one point, you might have liked her. Was it because she threw you over for Carver?”

It was a sore topic, and Carver had been involved, though not in the way she supposed. He didn’t want to admit to it, however, not to Isabela, not if he couldn’t even admit it to the woman in question. So he borrowed a page from Hawke’s book and lied. “I never liked her, not the way you’re insinuating. She was cute, yes, but in a childish manner. It was so sweet, it made my teeth ache.”

Unknown to either of them, they had an audience.

A few moments earlier, when the greatsword had struck the table, the noise had been loud enough to carry upstairs.

Hrodwynn had been dreaming, a dark and indistinct dream, something where her body felt like it was in two sections, the top half free though lost within a deep darkness, the bottom half tangled and held fast. She thought she was back at the abandoned wharf, her head and shoulders slipping into the sewer opening, and the entanglement around her legs was from Fenris trying desperately to keep her from falling. When Fenris’ greatsword had fallen downstairs, the loud clang crashed into her dream, sounding like the sewer grating falling on her waist, cutting her in two, slicing her from Fenris’ rescuing hands…

She woke with a start, sitting up in bed, her arms flailing at nothing while her legs seemed to be held fast. A soft cry escaped her lips as she looked around, blinking away the nightmare in the brunt of the morning light. Despite the adrenaline that still coursed through her veins, despite the fact that she found herself in Fenris’ bedchamber—in his bed!—despite the restrictions around her lower extremities, she felt relief for one very simple reason. She was alone. The evil elf who had been tormenting her for years was no where to be seen.

Hrodwynn took a deep, shaky breath. The anxieties from the dream faded further as she saw her legs were only tangled in the blankets, not within Fenris’ grasp. And the noise that had woken her, that had penetrated her somnolent vision and sliced through her ethereal form, had died away and was now unremembered. She threw back the blankets and pushed herself out of bed, hunting around for her boots while she began to plan her day.

Despite all she had been through yesterday, despite all the emotional upheaval over her near brush with death, despite all the food Anders had pushed on her, her stomach growled with emptiness. Her first concern, after finding her boots, would be to fill that void. She smiled to herself, amazed that she could still be hungry, as she shoved her feet inside. Then the smell hit her, a timid wafting of savory and pastry, and her eyes hunted the room for the source of the delicious smell.

There, in front of the hearth, as if in answer to her needs before she had known of them herself, were a couple of pasties. Briefly she wondered if Fenris had set them out purposefully for her, knowing she’d be ravenous this morning, trying to anticipate her needs. She knew it had to have been him; there was no one else who could have set them beside the fire to warm. But, then again, he would probably be hungry as well, so it was safe to assume he had set them there to warm for himself as much as for her benefit.

Adversely feeling better believing that he had done it for himself and not just for her, she picked up the pair of pasties and started for the door. After all, if he had warmed the food for both of them, the least she could do would be to bring him one, wherever he had disappeared.

Out in the hallway, she caught her first sound of the voices. The tones were dark and playful, male and female, sounding like they were acting out some sort of ritual. She crept over to the stairs, curious and nervous, wanting to know who was there but not wanting to interrupt. At the top of the stairs, Isabela’s voice became discernible, though most of the words remained indistinct. Hrodwynn caught one or two words here and there, something about a woman and Carver. Fenris’ voice, however, carried better, perhaps on a lower frequency, the gravely tone somehow easier to understand than Isabela’s sultry and pouty lilt. Halfway down the stairs, she paused to listen, spying the two of them standing on the other side of the main hall.

“I never liked her, not the way you’re insinuating. She was cute, yes, but in a childish manner. It was so sweet, it made my teeth ache.”

Hrodwynn might have been blushing when she realized Isabela was talking about her and Carver, but she turned positively livid at the way Fenris so readily dismissed her as being… childish? Her? Childish? Sweet? Cute? The heat in her cheeks turned from slight embarrassment to full ire. Too easily the memories came to mind, of Hawke taunting her, calling it a babysitting chore every time he had to take her with on a job. She had never realized that Fenris had felt the same way, but in looking back now she supposed it made sense. The way he used to hold her hand wasn’t out of some silent acknowledgement of friendship; it was more as if he was leading a small child down a busy street and didn’t want to lose her.

Babysitting. Childish. Cute.

The impulse to throw one of the pasties at the back of his head was almost too strong to ignore. She might have indulged herself, if reason hadn’t prevailed, telling her that such an act would only reinforce his impression of her. The bloody git!

She had missed the next few moments of the conversation, but she didn’t think she would have wanted to hear it anyway. Instead she cleared her throat and resumed her steps, making sure her boots made enough noise to announce her presence, encouraging them both to shut it.

“Good morning, Hrodwynn,” Isabela called out to her, lifting her eyes over Fenris’ shoulder. Her voice was entirely too cheerful and bright for the morning.

He strongly resisted the impulse to spin on his heels or give a guilty start, instead slowly turning around. He meant to include Hrodwynn, now that she was awake, giving him the perfect excuse to change the topic of conversation. Not that he didn’t like the sexual nuances between himself and Isabela, but it was obvious that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Isabela must have also had the same thought. She sauntered away from him, letting him catch a glimpse of the way the corner of her mouth curled just a little, before she continued to talk with Hrodwynn. “Did you sleep well? I came by, wanting to make sure you were alright after your ordeal yesterday. And to make sure that someone,” she stressed the word, thumbing over her shoulder at said elf, “Didn’t take advantage of your distressed state.”

Hrodwynn wasn’t sure if she meant Fenris might have killed her, or something else. “I’m fine, Isabela,” she refused to look at him. There was something about last night, something that nagged at the back of her mind, but it was fuzzy and indistinct and refused to become clear. Yet that notion told her he had done something to her, something… considerate? Thoughtful? Nice? She shook it off and extended one of her hands. “Pastry?”

Hrodwynn knew full well that there had been only two pastries set out to warm by the fire, and undoubtedly one of them should go to Fenris, especially by the way his eyes locked on to the end of her outstretched arm. Yet she deliberately took a bite of the one while offering the other to Isabela.

The lady pirate shook her head. “No thanks. I’ve already had breakfast. Coming to the Hanged Man later?”

“Of course,” Hrodwynn mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. She should have left them to warm a little longer, judging by the way the bits of food inside were cooler than the gravy. But she was hungry, and briefly thought about taking a bite out of the second pastry, purely out of spite. “Still have to help Hawke with that secret passage he wants.”

“Ah, yes, he and Anders were supposed to come by here this morning, weren’t they?”

“Any moment now,” Fenris agreed, trying to get into the conversation before Isabela managed to bring up anything embarrassing or teasing that would put him in even more hot water with Hrodwynn. He didn’t know why, but he could tell she was already mad at him this morning. Not that it should matter to him, he tried to remind himself, but he rather hoped he could snag that second pastry from her hands before she devoured it, too. Cautiously he started his approach.

“Anders was going to bring Felinus, too.” She finished off her pastry, licking the tips of her fingers for any crumbs or gravy she might have missed.

“Felinus?” Isabela asked, sounding a little confused, not ever having really paid attention to all of Hrodwynn’s stories.

“Her cat,” Fenris answered. His fingers wrapped around the pastry, and Hrodwynn’s fingers. She looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing briefly, but seeing that he was only after his breakfast, she decided to let him have it.

“You shouldn’t tease a tiger,” Isabela mumbled.

“What was that?” Hrodwynn asked, not having quite heard her.

“I said, you shouldn’t have long to wait, then. I don’t think I need to hang around, not if they’ll be here soon.”

“You don't have to leave on my account,” Hrodwynn protested. “You and Fenris sounded like you were having a, um, personal conversation.”

Isabela laughed. “Oh, my dear girl, you have no idea…” Her ample bosom sighed. “No, I only came by this morning to make sure you were alright. And I think I can leave, knowing you won’t be unsupervised for too long. At least,” she glanced down at Fenris’ groin, at the bulge that remained, “Not long enough for any damage to be done.”

He refused to let the heat steal across his cheeks.

“Fenris isn’t going to hurt me,” Hrodwynn assured her, completely missing the sexual implication, “Not while Hawke needs me to find out why the Coterie is after him, at any rate.”

“Then I’ll see you two later,” Isabela beamed at the elf, knowing the discomfort she was causing even if he wouldn’t show it, “At the Hanged Man. Goodbye, Hrodwynn.” She leered at Fenris one last time, her eyes sweeping the whole of him, from his mussed hair to his open tunic to his obscene bulge to his toes gripping the floorboards. “Fenris.”

Hrodwynn waved in answer, walking off a pace or two, not wanting to watch Isabela leave. That woman could make her body do the most convolutional motions, almost to the point where Hrodwynn was sure she should teeter off balance and fall flat on her face. Yet she always kept her feet. Grudgingly she admitted, that might be why Isabela walked that way, to hold every man’s attention, making them think she just might fall, and they would have to race up and catch her. Curious, she peeked over her shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Fenris was intently watching Isabela leave, his eyes glued to her swaying form. The bloody git!

The front door closed and he finally turned to face her, catching her staring at him with narrowed eyes. She cleared her throat, thinking she should say something. “Look, er, I’m sorry, I really am, that this whole pretend-relationship-thing is cutting into your personal life.” Not really, she added to herself, but he didn’t need to hear that. In fact, he probably didn’t care to hear any of this, but the words kept vomiting out of her mouth. “I mean, I saw, the other day, you and Isabela, um,” she waggled her fingers as if they could convey more meaning than her words, “You know, coming out of her room, kissing and, er, all that touching.” Damn, but her cheeks were beginning to feel hot. She should stop talking, she really should. “I realize that the two of you have this thing going, and with the timing and all of my troubles, it’s got to be inconvenient for the two of you, and I just wanted to you to know, I never meant to interfere, with the two of you, um, you know…” Again with the fuckingly stupid hand motions.

“Are you…” he paused to swallow, halfway through his pastry, “Are you…?”

“I’m apologizing,” she ground out between her teeth.

“I was going to say, jealous,” he countered with a nonchalant shrug, followed by a disinterested bite at his breakfast.

“You…!” The heat flooded her cheeks once more, and this time it would not be denied. “You fucking bastard!”

“Language,” he chided her.

“I’m trying to be nice,” she continued, “I’m trying to apologize for the mess I’m making of your sex life, and you just…” she thrust her hand towards him as if presenting him to an eager crowd, “…stand there chewing…” her fingers wiggled and waggled, “…like you’re some fucking lord of the manor…”

“There’s nothing between Isabela and I.”

She went on at first as if she hadn’t heard him. “…like you’ve been expecting my apology, like of course I should apologize for…” she finally sputtered to a halt. “What?!?!”

“Oh, I admit, Isabela is a nice change,” he took his final bite of pastry, chewing slowly and enjoying the look of incredulous rage on her face. Venhedis, but she was beautiful when she was angry, the way her eyes glittered like emeralds, her cheeks flushed with life, her Agreggio Pavali lips hung open and inviting. “She has certain… shall we say, appetites… that keep matters interesting. They definitely ward off the boredom. But I do not care for her, not they way you are implying. It is only sex.”

Her expression changed, the anger dissipating and being replaced by something else, something strong, something that made her blush turn green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Stop acting like a child,” he snipped at her. “Just because I sleep with someone, does not mean I love her. You should understand that.”

He took his eyes off of her, now that his breakfast was finished, and began closing the front of his tunic, his concentration on the fastenings, so he missed the deadly turn her expression was taking. “What are you saying?”

He also should have paid attention to the tone in her voice, but he continued to allow his focus to remain elsewhere. “You and Carver. I know you didn’t love him; you told me so yourself, right after his death in fact.” He should have stopped talking, he should have looked up at her face, but instead he brushed crumbs off the front of his tunic, frowning at spot he had missed cleaning last night. “Yet the two of you were sleeping together. Surely, you can’t think that’s any different than Isabela and I sleeping together. At least we both know there’s no love involved. Carver never learned the truth, did he?”

“You… you…” she shook her head, unable to find the words, but he wouldn’t stop.

“Besides, what Carver did was truly immoral. At least Isabela and I are two consenting adults. You were still a child when Carver slept with you. What did that make him, hm?”

He finally glanced at her, but it was too late. The sound of her hand slapping his face was just as loud as the sound his greatsword had made earlier that morning. Instinctively his head turned with the blow, bleeding off some of the force, but not enough to prevent the blood from rushing to the surface of his cheek, forming a perfect, Hrodwynn-sized handprint.

Slowly he brought his face back to hers, his green eyes dead, his ebony brows flat. He was half a heartbeat away from striking her back, from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her hard. But he knew, if he did that, he wouldn’t stop there. If he touched her, if he took hold of her, he’d have to continue. He’d have to yank her body towards his, hold her fast, crush her mouth beneath his lips, force his way into all her secret places.

“You bastard,” she whispered, yet the words were so fierce she might have been shouting. “You have no idea. You have no fucking idea! Carver and I never—NEVER!—did that. He was a perfect gentleman, unlike some people I know.”

One of those ebony brows twitched, lifting just a little bit with disbelief.

“He never… we never…” she hugged her arms, as if trying to offer herself some comfort, a soothing balm against the deeply painful memories she was unveiling for Fenris’ scrutiny. Yet despite the anguish, she felt compelled to defend Carver’s good name. “I wanted to. I felt I was ready, and old enough. But Carver… he wanted to wait, wait until we were sure I was an adult. He wanted things to be perfect for us, to be just right. Sure, we kissed, and messed around a little, but he never… we never did… that…”

A tear escaped, a single salty drop that held every pain, every regret, every lost opportunity. It would be the only tear she shed that day.

“Ferelden!” he suddenly exclaimed, the stinging on his cheek forgotten in the face of the realization. He ignored the shocked look on her face, too absorbed in his discovery, trying hard not to laugh over the absurdity. “Every time he said he wanted to take you to visit Ferelden, he really meant…”

“Shut it!”

She meant to slap him again, to hit him so hard it would knock that smugly triumphant expression right off his face, but he was prepared for her this time. His fingers gripped her like a vise, holding her wrist tight enough to bruise. When her other hand came up, thinking to attack him from the other side, he caught that one as well. She couldn’t retaliate, she could only stand there and stare and hate and bide her time.

Despite the danger, despite the razor thin line he was dancing between anger and arousal, he bent her arms, leveraging her body closer towards his, his face leaning in near enough to brush her lips with his breath. “You’re still a virgin, aren’t you.”

Despite the truth to that statement, she knew what that lump was that she could feel through the tight leather of his leggings. It wouldn’t be too hard or even all that awkward of an angle for her to strike him with the top of her thigh, swift and sure. Who knows, she might even hit him with enough force to raise his voice an octave or more out of that gravely pit he usually spoke.

“Fenris! Wynnie!” a pair of voices called out, even before the front door finished opening, with Hawke adding, “It’s us. Hawke and Anders.”

“And Felinus,” Anders finished, knowing that would get Hrodwynn’s attention, and make her feel better despite whatever kind of morning she had been having. And he was sure she was having a bad morning, for the simple fact that she was stuck with that moral-less, self-serving, ignorant and close-minded elf!

By the time the two newcomers passed through the foyer into the main hall, Fenris and Hrodwynn had managed to disengage and put a good six feet of daylight between them. Hawke wasn’t fooled, noting the redness in her eyes, as well as the redness on his cheek. Like his namesake, he watched intently as Fenris started moving towards the stairs, and as Hrodwynn sniffed and started for them. “Felinus!” she cried, trying to sound happy as she reached for the gangly cat clawing his way out of Anders’ grasp.

“Wynnie?” Anders noted the moisture in her eyes when she got closer, and immediately assumed the worst, which wasn’t too far off the truth. A gentle hand touched her cheek, but she refused to lift her eyes to his. “Are you alright? Did he…”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice subdued, her face buried in the fur of her cat. “Everything’s fine, now that you’re here.”

Felinus gave a loud purr of agreement.

“What…”

“Anders, love,” Hawke touched his arm, which was securely wrapped around Hrodwynn’s shoulders, “I’d like to get to the Hanged Man before lunch, if possible. Why don’t you and Hrodwynn make sure Felinus likes his new home? I’m sure there’s lots of, er, cat-things one needs to do to feel comfortable in a new environment. There certainly was last night with Mr. Snuggles.”

Now it was Anders’ turn to sniff. “That’s because you have a dog.”

“Mabari.”

“Whatever,” he waved off the difference. “Felinus—I’m sure—will be fine in his new home. His sister lives here, after all, doesn’t she? Or was she eaten one night after her new owner couldn’t be bothered to make a run to the grocer?”

“She’s around, somewhere,” Hrodwynn interrupted. The last thing she wanted right then was yet another altercation between Fenris and Anders. Not for Fenris’ sake, certainly, but for Anders’ sake; the deadly look in Fenris’ eyes right after she had slapped him was still fresh in her mind’s eye, and she didn’t want that ire directed at her friend. “I saw her just last night. Sat on my lap and purred like we’d seen each other the day before. So, did Hawke’s dog not get along with Mr. Snuggles?” She grabbed Anders and started leading him towards the disused kitchen where she was sure she would find the other cat, Cassia.

“Mabari,” Hawke paused on the stairs to correct her. Quickly he noted that Hrodwynn and Anders were already deep in conversation, and well on their way in their search for Cassia. He shook his head and let them be, knowing he had enough on his plate at that moment. He finished climbing the stairs and tracked Fenris down by the sounds of armor clinking coming from the water closet.

Hawke leaned against the frame of the doorway, knowing he had been noticed even if the elf didn’t turn around. He stood for a moment and watched Fenris put his armor on, tightening straps and fastening buckles with long-practiced ease. When he didn’t speak, Hawke sighed and scratched at the back of his head. “One bloody night, Fenris. You couldn’t be civil for one Maker-damned night!”

“I was civil,” he growled, low and dangerous, securing his belt around his hips, “She was the one who slapped me.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.” When Fenris didn’t respond, Hawke knew he was right. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut tight, not wanting to deal with this but knowing he had to—he was the only one who could, thanks to Varric’s brilliant plan. “Bloody shite, what did you say to her?”

Fenris didn’t want to admit it, couldn’t, not to Hawke, not where Carver was concerned. It may have been three years ago, but he knew Hawke still felt an emptiness at his side, a hole in his heart, a lack of an annoying little brother tag-along. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Fenris…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. Finished with the last of his armor, he turned and faced Hawke fully. “We had a bit of a misunderstanding, exchanged a few words, she slapped my face. That was when you and Anders arrived. Now it’s over. Leave it be.”

Hawke wouldn’t move from the doorway, not even when Fenris approached with enough momentum that it appeared he wasn’t about to stop. He did, though it was only a fraction of an inch from hitting Hawke. “I wish I could,” Hawke said softly, his amber eyes searching Fenris’ face, “But too much is riding on this. Her life. Anders’ life. My life. My mother’s life, for Andraste’s sake!” He leaned in even closer until he felt Fenris suppress the impulse to pull back. “The Coterie threatened my mum. I won’t let them get away with that. I can’t. I’ve lost too much family already.” He pulled back, a little, but enough to let Fenris catch his breath. “I don't know how I can stress this enough. I NEED Hrodwynn. I need her whole and healthy and on good terms with this Brekker character. I need YOU to help her get back into their good graces. Please, Fenris, I’m begging you,” his amber eyes pleaded, “Help me. All you have to do, is be nice to the girl. How hard can it be?”

“You know,” he moaned softly, unable to meet those imploring amber orbs, “You know how hard it is… how dangerous… my past… it could come back at any time… she could get hurt…”

“It’s been three years, Fenris,” Hawke rolled his eyes. “Danarius has given you up. Cut his losses. Moved on. You should, too. Besides, whatever dangers you imagine your future might hold, is nothing compared to the dangers her present holds. All our presents.” He stepped out of Fenris’ path. “We should get going. The morning’s already half past, and I do want to get to the Hanged Man before lunch.”

“Hawke, I…” His steps stopped, his head turned, his eyes lifted to Hawke’s face. “I will do better.”

“See that you do,” he scolded, not willing to take Fenris at his word. He started down the stairs and let the elf catch up on his own.

* * *

“It’s Coterie,” Hrodwynn confirmed their worst fears. “Not Jaxon, certainly, I don't think he’ll come for me with Fenris around. But the large woman across the street standing in front of the alley, she’s one of Brekker’s men, er, women.”

“Fuck,” Anders breathed. They had just left the area near the clinic, where Hawke wanted to put in the entrance for the secret passage, and were heading towards the Hanged Man. He and Hawke walked shoulder-to-shoulder, and instinctively his hand sought out Hawke’s, fingertips lightly brushing skin, searching timidly for comfort.

“It’ll be alright, Anders,” she tried to assure him, seeing the gesture as she and Fenris walked behind them. “I won’t be hurt, not as long as Brekker thinks he can use me. Besides, Jaxon’s the one to watch out for, and he’s not here. Go on to the Hanged Man and order me a pint; I’ll be there before you know it.”

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Fenris spoke his first words since they left his mansion.

“You don’t have to come…” Hrodwynn was more than willing to start a fight, but found her words drowned out by Hawke’s quiet yet commanding tone.

“Anders, love, don’t turn around,” Hawke took his elbow, preventing him from turning around and adding his two coppers worth, “We have to pretend we don’t see the Coterie thug. Hrodwynn, Fenris is right, you shouldn’t keep them waiting; and he is going with you. Fenris, we’re counting on you to keep her safe. We’ll meet up again at the Hanged Man. Now, go.”

He hastened their steps just a bit, just enough to put a little distance between them, to allow Fenris and Hrodwynn to fall back and slip away that much easier.

“Hawke…” Anders started and stopped, his voice quiet. His strawberry blond hair hung forwards over his stubbled cheek as he stared at the ground passing beneath their feet. “Hawke, please, tell me she’ll be alright. Tell me everything will be alright.”

Hawke took a deep breath, hating himself before he spoke what felt like a lie, “Everything will be alright.”

Hrodwynn and Fenris did their best, dropping back slowly, waiting until the two in front turned a corner before doubling back into a doorway. “I am serious, Fenris, I don’t need a babysitter.” She pushed dark red hair out of her eyes, feeling angry and tired and trapped.

“You did yesterday,” he reminded her.

“I only got hurt yesterday because you showed up,” she countered.

“Hrodwynn,” he grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him. He could see she was on her guard, the defensive wall in place once more, and two heartbeats away from kicking him in the groin. He softened his harsh and gravely voice as he tried again, “Hrodwynn, whatever it is between us, it’s complicated.”

“There’s nothing between us,” she hissed quietly. “And careful, she’s coming.”

“Then let’s not argue, not right now.”

“For once, we agree.” She brushed his hand off of one shoulder and slipped around him. She looked straight at the thug who had been watching them and was now walking up to where they were standing. Hrodwynn put on her spunkiest smile and asked, “You here for me?”

The large woman narrowed her eyes as she came to a stop, but didn’t answer.

“As talkative as ever,” Hrodwynn quipped under her breath. “Well, I know it would be stupid to try to run off, so, if you’d care to lead the way…”

“I’m coming as well,” Fenris took hold of her hand.

The thug turned her silent gaze onto him.

“Fenris,” Hrodwynn growled warningly.

“No,” he tightened his grip on her hand, turning his side towards the thug to face her fully. “I let you go off yesterday, on your own, and you were nearly killed. Whatever is going on, whatever trouble you’re in, we’ll face it. Together. I…” he had to take a moment to clear his throat, “I love you. I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

It was true. It was entirely true. And it would probably be the closest he would ever come to saying it. He cupped her cheek with his other hand, mostly to hide her surprised expression from the thug’s discerning sight, but partly to satisfy the desire to touch her.

Hrodwynn had to take a moment, had to remind herself that Fenris was lying, playing a part, pretending to care for her… But, damn him, he almost convinced her that he did love her! She got herself under control, put a gentle smile on her face, and reached up to pull his hand away. Then she looked at the thug, who had been standing impassive the whole time, and asked, “Any objections if he comes along?”

The large woman stared at her, simply stood there and stared, doing her best impression of a wooden post.

“You’ll have to forgive Bernice,” a masculine voice sounded from the side. Hrodwynn jumped, startled, and found herself leaning into Fenris. He in turn moved slowly, deliberately, placing Hrodwynn behind him and to the side, carefully protected between himself and the doorway. “She’s not known for her elocution.”

“Brekker,” Hrodwynn confirmed Fenris’ suspicions on the identity of the newcomer. “This is unusual.”

“You mean, meeting out here in the street, instead of some secluded alley or deserted building?” he smiled knowingly at her. “Your, er, friend here forced me to take certain precautions. I figured it would be harder for him to gain the upper hand in the middle of a crowd; using his ‘special talent’ would cause too much of a scene out in the open.”

Fenris’ glare was deadly, and spiteful, knowing Brekker was right.

“You did surprise me, Wynnie,” Brekker continued, coming up to stand beside them both, “I was under the impression that your reluctance for my little job was due to certain reasons on someone else’s part. I had no idea it was because you took a knife ear lover.”

Hrodwynn tensed when he used her nickname, but she could still feel Fenris tense when he used the racial slur. A soft, bluish-white glow rippled over his skin, flowing from head to toe before it dimmed. Brekker was right, Fenris couldn’t use his lyrium markings, not without attracting too much attention—even the brain-dead people of Darktown would have to notice a glowing elf. She was hard pressed to hide the smile, however, when Fenris’ hand slipped to his belt and drew a dagger.

“I don’t have to put my fist through your chest to kill you,” he grumbled, allowing the blade to be seen.

“Point taken,” Brekker backed off a step. “Let’s keep this civil, shall we?”

“I suppose we could,” she agreed, putting a hand on Fenris’ arm and signaling him to back down, “Since you didn’t bring Jaxon with.”

Brekker laughed. “You two really hate each other, don’t you. Doesn’t matter,” he clapped his hands and made a motion, as if dusting them off, changing the topic of conversation, “I want to talk with you about another little job I have for you. For… both of you, in fact.”

“Leave him out of this,” she warned, but Brekker was unimpressed.

“I think not.” Brekker took a moment to glance up and down the street, his eyes searching. He was uncomfortable standing there, out in the open, and trying hard not to show it. “The two of you are lovers, after all, and I have no assurance that your pillow talk hasn’t included any personal business of ours. As far as I’m concerned, he’s as much under my employ as you are. Besides, I find myself intrigued by this unique ability of his. I’d like to see it in action.”

“He won’t kill for you…”

“Unless the price is right,” Fenris broke over her objection.

“No,” she hissed, grabbing his elbow and yanking him around to face her. “Fenris, please, you don’t want to cross that line. Not with these people.”

Brekker unconcernedly buffed his fingernails on his jacket. “Relax, Wynnie…”

“Don’t call her that!”

It was hard to say who was more surprised by Fenris’ outburst, Brekker taking an involuntary step further out of his reach, or Hrodwynn’s hand slipping numbly from his arm. Even Bernice blinked.

Brekker recovered first. “As I was saying, I don’t want you to kill for me. I have something more subtle in mind. As I understand it, you can, what’s the term, phase through people? Can you also phase through walls? Doors? Locked doors?”

Fenris waited for a count of three before answering. “It’s been known to happen.”

Brekker smiled, an amused and genuine smile, chilling Hrodwynn to the bone. “Excellent.”

Less than an hour later, Hrodwynn and Fenris walked into the Hanged Man. Wordlessly they took their seats, saved for them by Anders, two mugs of flat and tepid swill waiting for them.

“Well?” Hawke prompted, slightly irritated over being made to ask.

Hrodwynn took a long swallow of her ale before she could find her voice. “We’re in.”


	18. A Little Job

“We’re in?” Varric repeated from across the table. “You mean that in the royal sense, right? Like, hey, Hawke, Brekker bought the story, we’re in!”

Hrodwynn didn’t answer Varric, feeling so nervous she was almost sick to her stomach. The sorry excuse for ale that was served at the Hanged Man did little to settle either her stomach or her nerves. She couldn’t look up, couldn’t risk the chance of seeing Anders’ face, of reading his thoughts…

Fenris was sitting next to her, however, and he felt no compulsion to keep quiet. “No, what she means to say, is that Brekker has a job for the two of us, both Hrodwynn and myself.”

“Andraste’s knickers,” Anders’ curse fell like a headsman’s axe on her bowed shoulders, making her sink even further into her unappetizing mug.

“Maker damn it, Fenris!” Hawke’s outburst was quiet. He felt frustrated, wanting to hit the top of the table with his fist, and was barely able to restrain himself. “I told you to go with her to see Brekker, not go with her on the job.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Fenris’ tone was mild as he defended himself. It seemed to him that Hrodwynn was not about to add to the conversation, more consumed with consuming her drink. “Brekker had the idea before we met with him. He wants me to go with Hrodwynn to the Orlesian Embassy and use my ability…”

“I don’t think I want to hear any more of this,” Aveline cleared her throat, loudly, from the end of the table. “Hawke, I’m going back to the Keep. Let me know when you’re ready to head up to that mine of yours. I could use a day or two of fresh air.”

“What’s this?” Hrodwynn finally lifted her face, and it wasn’t because she was out of ale. Well, it wasn’t only because she was out of ale. A chance to get out of Kirkwall, even as far as that stupid mine, sounded heaven sent. How Hawke had managed to finagle part-ownership in it, she had never quite understood. But he had. So of course, if there was trouble, his partner would ask him to fix it.

“Later,” Hawke mumbled. “First, you tell me about this little job. After Aveline leaves, of course.”

“So considerate of you,” she deadpanned. As the Captain of the City Guard walked around the table, she paused by Hrodwynn and set a hand on her shoulder. “If anything goes wrong on this job, I’ll do my best to help you, but I can’t make any promises. Embassy grounds are considered foreign soil, and they’re not subject to the laws of Kirkwall, but their own laws. I won’t have any authority there, understand?”

Hrodwynn nodded.

Hawke waited until Aveline had left the Hanged Man before he started pressing for details again. “Well?”

Fenris seemed to be out of words, finally. Though far too late in Hrodwynn’s opinion. Bloody git. “Not much to it,” she shrugged, still unable to look at Anders. She could feel his gaze, burning into her like a bolt of lightning magic. “Like Fenris said, we’re to break into the Orlesian Embassy, where there’s some papers Brekker wants from inside a Siggerdson safe. Fenris handles any locked doors we come across by phasing through them, I handle the safe. We pick up the portfolio of papers and leave. Simple.”

Varric stared at her from across the table. “Bull shit. Hawke, don’t let them do it.”

“Why not?” Merril quipped. “It sounds easy enough. I mean, it’s not like they’re being asked to do something they can’t do. Hrodwynn’s always said she could open a Siggerdson…”

“It’s not the safe itself… bah,” Varric made a noise of disgust, squeezing his eyes shut like he was fighting off a headache. “I suppose none of you have heard, but someone already tried—and failed—to break into that particular safe. The guards at the Embassy have been tripled! Not to mention the safe’s been moved to a different location inside the building, a room without windows or vents, and only one door, at the end of a very long hallway, filled with said guards.”

“How do you know all this?” Isabela pressed, “I’m only curious on a professional level. Seems to me like this isn’t something an upstanding businessman like yourself would normally look into, who’s been breaking into where to steal what.” She nonchalantly took a sip of her ale.

“Lately I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground,” Varric answered, staring at Hrodwynn, but his voice softened towards the end, “Wherever the Coterie is concerned. Especially if a Siggerdson is involved. For obvious reasons.”

Hrodwynn looked up at him from beneath her lashes and gave him a tight little smile. “Thanks, Varric.”

“Don’t mention it. You are currently the only one in Kirkwall who has ever broken into a Siggerdson.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” she picked up a little more, seizing at the change of topic. “What about Benners? I thought he managed it a couple months back…”

“Skipped town last month. He got wind that someone, either a former victim or client, placed a contract on him with the Crows. Doubt we’ll ever hear from him again.”

She swallowed. “Damn. I guess that does leave just me. I mean, I know others want to take a turn at cracking one, but…”

“But you’re the only one who has succeeded,” he finished. “Yeah. Damn.”

Hawke had been strangely quiet through the little digression in the conversation, his amber eyes glowing warmly in the lamplight. His nostrils flared with each breath, the only sign of his distress. Damn, but this didn’t feel right. It was all lined up too perfectly, with Hrodwynn’s ability to open that particular safe, and Fenris’ ability to phase through objects. He had a feeling like they were being manipulated, but couldn’t for the life of him see how. Or find a way out of it.

“When are you going in?” he heard himself say.

“The sooner, the better,” she answered, only thinking of getting the job done and over with!

Fenris, however, had other ideas, hopeful ideas, daring ideas. Hawke’s latest lecture was still fresh in his mind—along with the slap Hrodwynn had given him—that maybe the only one who still considered him a runaway slave was himself. Maybe he could start considering a future instead of his past. Maybe he could have a relationship with someone he cared for instead of someone who’s turned on by the novelty. And, maybe this job was the perfect excuse to spend time with Hrodwynn, to get to know her, to try to erase those years of hatred between them. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “We’ll, er, have to do a little planning,” he objected mildly, “Learn the guard rotation, practice picking locks—for me, not you,” he clarified quickly when Hrodwynn shot him a look full of daggers.

“You know how to pick a lock,” she dismissed his concerns, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her mug. “You’ve done it before.”

“The locks I’ve picked have all been easy ones; I doubt we’ll find anything easy at the Embassy.”

Hrodwynn turned back to face him, half in disbelief, half in suspicion, wondering how he could be so obtuse. “Just phase through…”

“That might not always be possible, or you might need my help with a set of locks, or some other situation could arise that we haven’t thought of yet.” The excuses were thin, and at any moment he feared she would see through them—see through him. He dared himself, he dared to reach out to her, to touch her shoulder—and hopefully distract her from discovering his motives. “I’d feel better if I had some time to practice, and perhaps a few pointers from you.” He held his breath.

She blew an exasperated breath out of her nose. “Fine. One week should be plenty of time to teach you a few tricks. Brekker didn’t give us a deadline, so we’re good there. But I’d rather not drag this out longer than necessary. We do the job. We find out from Brekker what he wants with Hawke. Then we’re done. With Brekker. With the Coterie. With having to pretend that we like each other.”

Fenris denied the pain her words caused. At least he’d have a week to try to change her mind. “Agreed.”

* * *

Fenris moved slowly, trying to feel what Hrodwynn was talking about. “There’s a groove that runs horizontally…”

“That’s just to guide the key into the lock,” she brushed his discovery aside. Sitting on the kitchen counter, trying not to look too closely into the dark and dusty corners of the disused room, she leaned in and cast her shadow over the lock.

“I cannot see,” he said succinctly, “Again.”

“And I’ll say it, again: don’t use your eyes,” she retorted. “FEEL the inside of the lock. In fact, close your eyes; here, let me help.” In a flash, she hopped off the counter and moved to stand behind him, placing her hands over his eyes. She felt a tremor run through his body at her touch, and realized she had just done something very foolish—and very dangerous—in covering his eyes like that; his past as a slave and his training as a warrior would make him uncomfortable in such a situation. For a moment she feared he was going to attack her. It would be instinctively, of course, and he would be sorry afterwards, of course, but she would be left hurting just the same. He didn’t react, however, and for some strange reason, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Um, alright, now,” she cleared her throat and tried to ignore how personal the contact was getting, “Follow that groove inside the lock to where it ends. Are you there? Good, feel around, there should be a plug below and to your left, and pins hanging down from above.”

Fenris wasn’t so aware of the insides of the lock, as he was aware of Hrodwynn. She stood so closely behind him he could feel the front of her breasts against his back, feel her cool fingers light and delicate across his eyelids, feel her breath fanning the hairs of his neck. Venhedis, but it was a tempting thought: to spin within her embrace, to press their fronts together, to wrap his arms around her…

“Can you feel them?”

“What?” he swallowed.

“The pins near the top. There should be three of them, hanging down in various lengths…”

“I, er, no, there’s something, I’m not sure…” he tried to focus, but the heat coming from her body was delectable, and he a starving man.

“Damn it, Fenris!” she suddenly spurted, dropping her hands, pacing away. Now he distinctly felt the coolness of her absence. She turned and took a few steps back before she started ranting. “How many times do we have to do this? Look, it’s a simple lock, you find the pins, push them up, and twist the plug. Bang! Lock’s unlocked!”

“It might be simple for you,” he kept his temper in check, barely, “But this is the first time I’ve tried a lock this complex…”

“Maybe we should give this up, just have you walk through the locked doors and open them from the other side.”

“I am trying my best…”

“Or just let me pick them.”

“…But I can’t quite follow your instructions…”

“Maker forbid we come across any wafer locks.”

“Here!” he demanded, giving up trying to shout explanations at a moving target. She had reached his side again, spouting deriding comments all the way. But she had gotten too close, and he was able to reach out and seize her wrist. She gasped and yanked backwards, but he was stronger than her, and dragged her to stand in front of him. He took her hand, pressed it against his other hand, and they merged together into one flesh. Then he slid both their hands inside the lock.

Hrodwynn gasped again, a feeling of coldness pressing down around her hand from all directions, a feeling of warmth sprouting from within and resisting the cold, a feeling of movement that wasn’t her but was coming from inside her…

“Do you see my problem?” This time his front was pressed to her back, his cool touch on her skin, his warm breath on her neck.

She shuddered.

“There’s the groove, feel it?” he continued, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about his hands around hers, pulling her with him as he phased inside a solid object. “Now what exactly is the plug? Or the pins? I feel nothing inside that would be sharp enough to be considered a ‘pin’. You throw these terms around like I should know what they mean, when to me you’re speaking a different language with different meanings for different terms.”

“Oh! Ah…” she licked her lips. It was unnerving, seeing her hand disappear inside a solid mass. Sure, she’d watched Fenris do it a hundred times, but this was her hand damn it! And it felt… she couldn’t describe it. Cold and hot when there wasn't any temperature. Or like standing still while all of Thedas moved around you. And when he leaned in even closer, she could feel oh-so-much of his non-phasing body pressed against her body.

“Where are these pins you spoke of?”

“What?” she swallowed. Her bright emerald eyes blinked at him from over her shoulder. His face was so close, his lips parted, the tips of his teeth peeking out from between.

“Inside the lock?” he prompted.

“Right! The lock. Pins,” she was almost panting, feeling like she had been running for miles, her muscles trembling, her focus waning. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of his teeth, dragging herself back to thinking about the lock, only the lock, not how close he was or how warm he felt or what that lump was digging into the side of her arse…

“Erm, can you feel this, up here, near the top, kind of a flat circle?”

She hadn’t moved her fingertips very far, nor did she want to, fearing what might happen if she tried to pull away without his hand there inside/with hers, phasing for both of them.

“You’re shaking,” he commented.

“I, oh, um,” she tried to speak, but the syllables weren’t making any coherent sounds. “I mean, what?” she tried again, wanting to kick herself, thinking how that wasn’t any better than the first attempt.

“Shaking,” he repeated, his chin hovering over the top of her shoulder. She could taste his breath on her lips, the sweetness of apples and cinnamon from the turnover he had after lunch. “It’s hard for me to feel what you’re feeling, when you’re trembling like this.”

“It’s, ah, well, sorry, but it’s a bit unnerving, seeing my hand inside something solid…”

He’d grown so silent, so still, she wondered if she had said something that was somehow thoughtless or insulting. Quickly she opened her eyes, fearful that he might be planning something, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was standing there with his eyes closed, an intense look of concentration on his features. “I’m sorry; I hadn’t considered that,” he answered a bit distractedly. “I suppose, I phase through things all the time, it no longer bothers me—not the sight of it, anyway.”

“If the sight of your hand disappearing inside something else doesn’t bother you, what does?” Why was her voice so soft, so breathy?

“Not the sight of it, certainly,” he answered, “But the markings themselves. I feel them.” He opened his eyes, dull green immediately locking with bright green, so close they could see into each other’s depths. “Every time. Like searing fire, shooting through me. Though it’s something I’ve gotten used to, that hasn’t lessened the amount of pain I feel. And every breath of wind sets them off. Every brush. Every touch. No matter how light or unintentional. Like this?”

She licked her lips, trying hard not to notice how close his lips were, how easily she could reach out and lick his lips… “Like what?”

“The pins you mentioned,” he clarified. “Do they feel like this?” His fingers moved inside the lock, infinitesimally, sending a cool shudder up her arm, breaking the spell.

Right! The lock! Oh, bloody shite, had she just been thinking about kissing… Fenris?!?! “Erm, yes, the pins, those are them,” she agreed, eyes blinking rapidly, praying she didn’t sound as stupid as she sounded. “You’ll, ah, you’ll want to lift them up out of the way, so you can turn the plug.”

“The plug…?”

“Um, yes, the plug. It’s the big thing here, feel that, I mean, the hard part, in the middle, that you run your fingers along,” she tried to make herself make sense. “Er, the solid, um, chunk of metal, in the center of the lock.”

“Ah, I see. So I pretend my finger is the key, grooved to lift the pins out of the way of the plug.”

“Right. Then you push against the plug.”

“Clockwise,” he agreed, giving his wrist a little twist.

“And the lock opens up.”

Right on cue, there was an audible click and the spring inside released, popping open the lock.

“There. Nothing to it.”

Fenris held her gaze, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t say it was nothing. My hand, our hands, rather,” he restated, “Are still phasing.”

“Oh, um, ah…”

She looked down at his hand on her wrist, slowly and carefully guiding their hands out of the lock. They remained together, entwined, superimposed over each other, for a moment longer before he let her go. Immediately he allowed the glow of lyrium to dissipate, and his flesh turned solid once more. She stared at her hand, also solid, and lifted it up in front of their faces, wiggling the fingers, turning it this way and that. It was normal, it was her hand as it always had been, like it hadn’t just been inside a solid mass of metal and springs and pins.

“You should, um,” she took a few steps away, needing the air, needing the time, needing to keep herself out of reach in case he thought of doing that again! “You should try it, on your own this time. Keep at it, keep practicing, until you can do it quickly.”

“Would you mind if I took a break first?”

“Why…?” she turned around, her curiosity getting the better of her. A little distance, however, did wonders for her perception. She could see the slump of his shoulders, the tired pull at the corners of his mouth, the sweat beaded over his upper lip. She felt like kicking herself again, having forgotten what he had just said, just confessed to her. “Oh, right, the pain, sorry, take whatever time you need…”

“I don’t need your pity,” he grumbled low. Obstinately he picked up the lock and snapped it closed, ready to go again.

“It wasn’t pity,” she found herself reaching out, putting her hand over the front of the lock—as if that could stop him. “Damn it, Fenris, why is it every time I try to be nice to you…”

Her words stopped, seeing the tight-lipped expression on his face, the pain cringing the corners of his eyes, the muscles clenching in his jaw. “For that matter, why do I keep trying to be nice to you?” she wondered rhetorically. She dropped her hand, turning her back on him and walking away again.

“It’s your nature,” his words followed her, reaching her ears before she could reach the door, “To be nice to others. Just as it’s my nature to be untrusting, to always assume the people around me intend the worst for me.”

She heard the emotion in his voice, the regret, the loneliness, the accusation—both towards himself as well as others. She also heard the lock click open again. Snap shut again. “You think I’m naive, don’t you.”

Open. Shut. “You think I am cold.”

Open. Shut.

She couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see the pain and fatigue and… all those weak little things that changed Fenris from a god-like entity who could rip a heart out of a man’s chest—into a normal flesh-and-blood man who yearned for the very touch that pained him.

Open.

Shut.

She may not be allowing herself to turn around, but neither was she able to leave the room.

Open.

“I think I’ve gotten the hang of this.”

Shut.

“It seems… almost… familiar… like I know exactly how each part feels and can anticipate its movements.”

Open.

“It can get like that sometimes,” she agreed, hearing him snap the lock shut. It was easier, to speak about lock picking, the subject well-known and a specialty and—most importantly—safe. “Especially the more difficult locks. They can get so complex, with so many different features that can feel so different from one lock to the next, that each lock becomes unique, even familiar, should you happen to run across it again.”

Open. “How so?”

“Well, take that lock, there,” she turned back around, gesturing at the lock, trying hard not to look at him; it was also much safer staring at the lock than at those beaten and abused and wary green eyes. “You have the groove along the side, which can feel thicker or longer or wider than on another lock of the same type. There’s the pins, of course; each lock’s pins are held down by springs, and some springs are tighter than others. And the plug, too, can feel different; if it’s oiled less it can stick, or too much and it can slip and spin shut just by tilting the lock. There are lots of parts that each have their own, um, feel, their own characteristics, kind of like being different people, you know. That person has red hair, that person has brown. That lock has a tight spring, that lock has a sticky plug.”

“And what about something like a Siggerdson?” he pressed, setting the lock aside, seemingly enraptured with her lecture.

“Even more unique. You've got the dials, three of them, which can spin slower or faster—depending on how well they were oiled, the climate of the room where the safe’s kept, how often the safe is opened and closed creating normal wear and tear, and other factors like that. There are the discs, each of them with their notches and how smooth the edges are; and the feel of the bolts sliding through the notches. Then there’s the glass tubes of Glitterdust, delicately balanced on top of thick wires, that wobble back and forth, just waiting to fall and break open. The wobbling is probably the worse feeling. If the double-hinges aren’t well-oiled, just yanking the door open—even after picking the lock—can set off the gas traps.”

He lifted one ebony eyebrow at her. “And you purposefully want to pick such a safe.”

It wasn’t a question, but she defended herself nonetheless, “Well, it’s a rush, the adrenaline shooting through your blood, being aware of how close you are to death. And doing something no one else has done, or very few at any rate, makes me… well… special… someone… important…”

“And not a nameless orphan without a past or her memory.” Fenris watched her eyes narrow, her dark red lips blushing deeper as she pursed them. He had angered her, again, though this time unintentionally. Quickly he grabbed her arm before she could spin away. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I… know how it feels, to have no memory of your life before. To have no family, no inherited reputation, no one to stand and speak on your behalf. To have to create yourself from nothing.” He dropped her arm and turned back to the lock, his voice rolling like an earthquake, “To be so afraid of returning to that nothing.”

Shut.

Open.

Hrodwynn intimately knew that fear. She felt it, hated feeling it, that pull, that life-draining nobody-ness that dogged her heels. She had been nothing, a nobody, with no family, no past, no memory, no friends. But being the only person in Kirkwall to have picked an un-pickable lock had firmly etched her name into the books. She was Hrodwynn, the Siggerdson-cracker. She was the one to go to. She was somebody.

But Fenris… knew that feeling, that fear, of obscurity? “How? How do you know?”

“My markings.” He didn’t look at her. Somehow, it was easier, talking to the lock. “The process of branding the lyrium into my flesh was… in a word… excruciating.” Shut. “It took days. Weeks. Long, exhaustive sessions. I hardly remember it, thankfully, other than the pain. But everything from before, my past, my family, my age, even my own name…” Open. “It’s all gone. There’s nothing before this.” Shut. “Everything I know about myself, little as it is, was told to me by Danarius, making it extremely suspect. In fact, he admitted to giving me a new name; therefore, it is reasonable to assume anything else he’s told me is a lie. I’m as much a nobody as you once were.” He tossed the lock down, unable to pick it this time, but not wanting her to think it was because he couldn’t concentrate.

He braced his hands on the table, growing quiet, second-guessing his idea to spend this extra time with Hrodwynn. He had gotten to know her a bit more, mostly stories of the locks she’d picked over the years, what she was stealing for whom, a few stories including Hawke on those rare occasions when Fenris hadn’t been taken along. But he hadn’t considered the fact that he would be sharing his past with her—and what it would cost him. He could admit it; he was a prideful man. And pride was a possession a slave rarely owned, one that was new to him, and one he refused to allow anyone to take away from him. Telling Hrodwynn about his past, or his pain, or anything personal was opening himself up, giving her ammunition to use against him, to embarrass him, to betray him.

Perhaps, spending these extra days with her had been a bad idea. “I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“What?” she blinked at him, but he didn’t look up, continuing to show her his profile. She had been lost in thought, confused, worried. Fenris rarely talked about himself—to anyone! And to have shared with her such intimate details of his life, twice in one day, left her wondering why. There had to be a motive with Fenris, there was always a motive. Some exchange, some barter, some trade where he felt he ended up the better for making the deal. Yet for the life of her, she couldn't see what he was getting out of this.

But why else in the bloody Void would he tell her these things?!?!

“Lock picking,” he clarified, pushing himself off the table and turning to face her, his broody mask firmly in place, his emotions buried deep, his denial in full force. “I don’t think any more practice will make me any better, not for a while at any rate, and we don’t have that much time.”

She mentally shook herself. Whatever mysterious motive Fenris may have, she could ignore it. All she had to do was get through this one job with him, snoop a little on Brekker, report back to Hawke, then she could wash her hands of the elf! “You, er, want to go in tonight?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He could hear the eagerness in her voice. “I’m ready if you are.”

She could hear the longing in his voice. “I’m ready.”

* * *

If there weren’t chains on her wrists…

If there weren’t bars between them…

If the guards hadn’t slapped her around so much…

Hrodwynn couldn’t believe how things had gone so badly so quickly. Oh, Maker, what a fucking cesspool of a mess this whole job had turned out to be! she lamented. She’d been caught, arrested, and was now inside a prison cell deep beneath the Orlesian Embassy awaiting trial for her crimes. And there in the hallway, just beyond her reach, was the very arse-hole who had gotten her into this situation.

“…fuck off…” she quietly moaned.

Jaxon stood on the other side of the cell door, smiling at her like the cat that got the cream. “This offer comes from Brekker himself. I’d take it, if I were you.”

She blinked her one good eye up at him from where she half-lay, half-sat in the corner of her cell. “So that’s what this was all about,” she reasoned, thinking through the events that led up to her arrest, “We were sent on that job, just to get arrested. Then you’d waltz in here and, what, arrange for our release, as long as we permanently joined Brekker’s gang.”

“Something like that,” he agreed. “Oh, Brekker did want those papers. But he’s not too upset at the way things turned out. A situation like this, he calls it ‘aggressive recruitment’,” Jaxon continued to smile that oily smile, his eyes dancing in the torchlight. “The two of you each have a desirable, if not unique skill set. Admittedly, that knife-ear lover of yours is more valuable than you are. Too bad he left you holding the bag.” He leaned a shoulder against the bars, thinking she was too battered and weak to do him any harm, even if she somehow could manage to struggle to her feet and reach him. “I was surprised he did so. I would’ve thought, if the two of you had any sort of feeling for each other, the last thing he’d do is leave you behind to get arrested by the Orlesians.”

Hrodwynn thought back to last night, her and Fenris deep inside the Orlesian Embassy, opening the safe, hearing the guards coming, the panic, Fenris trying to phase them both through the wall…

“Yeah, well, sucks to be you, the only one imprisoned here is me,” she huffed. She knew Fenris hadn’t left her, that he had refused to leave her, endeavoring until the last possible moment to get them both out of the room. He couldn’t quite extend his phasing ability to include all of her; a hand or a foot, or even an arm, but not her whole body. And as the guards opened the door, she had spun out of the way. Fenris had been pushing so hard, that without her holding him back, he easily and quickly and irrevocably phased through the wall. She had sacrificed herself so that Fenris could escape. But Jaxon didn’t need to know that.

He laughed, hiding his disappointment.

“I bet you tipped off the guards, too, to ensure we’d get caught.”

His laughter stopped.

She heard his silence, and for some obscure reason, she started to laugh, despite the ache in her side, more amused than pissed-off over his obvious nature. “You mother-fucker. You did, didn’t you?”

“I never said that.”

“Just wait until I tell Brekker…”

“Yeah, well,” Jaxon gripped the bars of the cell, leering inside at her, “You won’t tell him, will you? Not if you want to get out of there.”

“Brekker sent you here to get me out, didn’t he?” Her laughter stopped, mostly because her ribs hurt, but she remained smiling—the only one smiling. “How upset would he be, if you went back to him empty handed?”

“Not as upset as you’ll be, when I’m through with you. After the guard unlocks your cell, he and I, we can have a little fun with you first. Maybe even,” he took his clippers out of his coat pocket, “Teach you to respect your betters.”

There was a chink in her armor, but she shored it up with bravado. “You can’t harm me, Jaxon. Brekker needs me alive and whole.”

“Alive, sure,” he shrugged. “Whole? Well, so long as you have all your fingers, you can still pick a lock. But there are other things to snip off.” He snapped the clippers suggestively.

“Oh, no, Jaxon,” she pushed herself, forcing herself to believe her words as she spoke them, “Not this time. I’ve got you by the short hairs. Brekker sent you here, so you can’t leave here without me. And as soon as I see Brekker, I’m telling him what you’ve done. What you’ve threatened to do. How you jeopardized this whole affair. You’re the one who’s fucked.”

He stared at her, hard, through the bars, his eyes as flat as the steel.

“And then there’s Fenris…”

She had overplayed her hand.

“Fenris?” Jaxon repeated. “You mean, the knife-ear?” Suddenly he smacked his forehead, unfortunately with the hand that wasn’t holding the clippers. “Of course! He didn’t leave you behind. You sacrificed yourself so he could escape. You really do love that freak, don’t you.” He leaned against the bars, dangling his hands through, leering at her again. “I wonder what might happen to him, what horrible accident might occur, leaving him injured or maimed, while you’re stuck inside this cell, no way to warn him, no way to know what became of him.”

She stared at him with flashing emerald eyes. That wasn’t what she meant—forgetting for the moment that she was pretending to be in love with Fenris—but denying it would only make Jaxon more sure. Besides, she doubted a dunce like Jaxon could catch Fenris unawares. She stared at him a moment longer, thinking how wonderful it would be if she only had five seconds, well, five seconds and a lock pick. She’d open the cell door, loop the chains around his neck, give a twist, and the world would be less one prick. But she didn’t have a lock pick, nor the strength and dexterity to use it—not at that moment. She turned to gaze at the other side of her cell, letting her head rest against the corner.

“There’s always that queer, Anders. He’s already on Brekker’s list, just for being so close to that upstart, Hawke. And his clinic is in a dangerous part of town. Real easy for him to get hurt. Like last time.”

Hrodwynn swallowed, never liking it when her friends were threatened, but Jaxon harming Anders was even less likely than anyone getting the drop on Fenris. Anders was under Hawke’s personal protection. She had to trust that Hawke wouldn’t let anything happen to Anders. Or his cat.

“All your threats are empty, Jaxon. You can’t do anything to me, or those I care about, and you can’t leave me in here.”

“Oh, I can leave you in here,” he growled, finally getting her to look at him. “I can always tell Brekker that you were out cold, having gotten hit on the head during your arrest. Or you told me to tell him that you’d rather take your chances in court, than join his gang. Doesn’t matter what I say, because you won’t be there to contradict me.” He pulled away from the bars. “So here’s the deal. You want out, you gotta play by my rules. No telling Brekker anything, not about my tipping off the guards, or threatening you and your friends, or what we might do before we leave here. This is your last chance, bitch. What’s it going to be?”

“Well, if this is really my last chance to talk with you…” she defied him, lifting up one hand in a particularly rude gesture.

Jaxon lost control over his emotions. He slammed a hand against the bars, making them rattle and clang, making her flinch. “Damn it, Hrodwynn, you fucking cunt…”

“Hey, time’s up,” a new voice whispered loudly down the corridor. “My Captain’s on his way here, so if we’re doing this, it’s got to be now.”

Jaxon didn’t answer, his eyes focused on Hrodwynn, who still had her hand raised.

“Come on, Jaxon, what’s it to be? Do I open the door and pretend you overpowered me, or not?”

He waited one more heartbeat, but it made no difference. “Not today,” his voice was terrible and low.

“Suits me either way,” the nameless guard shrugged. “Got a date tomorrow night. The little lady would be impressed with either my good looks, or a good story of how I got beat up.”

Jaxon scoffed. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

Hrodwynn lowered her hand. It had started shaking, her muscles weak and the chains weighing her down. Maker, but it felt good to sit there, quiet and still, even in the dark.

Regardless of what tomorrow would bring, at least now she knew how things had gone so wrong so quickly. At least now she would be free if Brekker’s clutches.

And at least Fenris got away to tell Hawke what happened. Not that she had any idea what he could do to help her, but Hawke did have a way of surprising people with his resourcefulness.

Comforted with the dream that somehow, in some way, Hawke would rescue her, she managed to drift off to sleep.

* * *

“You fucking coward!” Anders’ eyes were glowing, a blueish white, much like the color of Fenris’ lyrium markings—which were also fully lit.

“Careful, Anders, you’re losing control… again.” Fenris’ voice was low and dangerous, like the growl of a predator.

“Both of you! Stop this!” Hawke stepped in between them, or tried to, hoping to break them apart. Anders was understandably upset when Fenris showed up at the mansion without Hrodwynn. Leading with the line, ‘She’s been arrested,’ probably wasn’t the best move, either. Anders had immediately set upon him, fingers spread like talons, his hatred for the elf and his concern for Hrodwynn giving a foothold for Justice to take over. They had grappled, staggering across the main hall, knocking into furniture and sending pictures crashing off the walls. Mr. Snuggles had fled, wisely so; though Hawke’s Mabari was barking and snarling and snapping at their heels, somewhere between wanting to join in what he thought was playtime, and wanting to go into full attack mode.

“Stop! This isn’t doing Hrodwynn any good!”

“He abandoned her!”

“She pushed me through!”

“STOP!” Hawke’s voice was thunderous. He had had enough, taking out his staff and swinging it around, focusing his will, and sending a shockwave that knocked both men off their feet. Anders was slammed up against the wall beside the hearth; Fenris was sent flipping end over end to land on the far side of the room. Hawke moved quickly, turning his back on Fenris—what he considered the lesser of two evils—to take hold of Anders. Looking into his lover’s face, he was confronted again by the Spirit of Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever it was that willingly coexisted within Anders. “Anders. Anders! Listen to me. Breathe for a moment. Just… breathe. Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. That’s it. Take another breath. Good.”

Anders slowly, painstakingly slowly came back to his own self. “Hawke?” he asked, sounding slightly bewildered, as if he hadn’t been aware of Justice taking over, or what had happened during that time. “Oh, Blessed Andraste, please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” he confirmed. Relief was evident in his voice and on his face as he stared into a pair of mocha brown eyes.

“Wish I could say the same,” Fenris grunted, gaining his feet and wiping at the trail of blood falling from his lip.

“You had it coming!” snarled Anders.

“I wasn’t the one who lost control,” Fenris countered. “Though I could have phased my hand into your chest and ripped your heart out, I CHOSE not to…”

“Enough!” roared Hawke. He turned sideways to them, one hand still in contact with Anders, the other reaching out towards Fenris, palm outwards—part plea for him to remain quiet, part command for him to cease. His head pivoted back and forth between them until he was finally, reasonably assured that they would remain civil. “Anders, let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know what happened. Maybe Fenris didn’t have a choice.”

Anders swallowed, pursed his lips, but gave in with a nod.

“Good. Fenris, explain yourself. Tell us what happened. From the beginning.”

Fenris walked over to a table, righted a chair that had been knocked over in the scuffle, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. He dabbed at his lip once or twice more before he started talking. “Hrodwynn and I went to the Embassy during the night—as planned. We timed our infiltration to coincide with the guards’ shift change—as planned. We found the corridor to the safe empty, the guards moving to and from their posts—as planned. I phased through the door and let her inside—as planned.”

“We get the picture, Fenris,” Hawke was having trouble keeping his temper in check, grinding the words out between his teeth. “Get to where things didn’t go as planned.”

“You did say to start at the beginning,” he sniffed, dabbing at his lip again. Talking was making it bleed more, but he’d be damned before he’d ask Anders to heal him. “But very well. It was after the safe was opened. Hrodwynn made the comment that the Siggerdson was the same one she had cracked a couple of years ago in the Harbor Master’s Office. I know it sounds strange, but there are ways to tell; trust me. We started looking though the papers, but, er,” here Fenris paused, his cheeks turning pink, knowing he’d have to tell them the shameful truth, “Neither one of us could read well enough to figure out which file it was that Brekker wanted.”

“Oh, for the love of Andraste…” Anders groaned.

Hawke hushed him and urged Fenris to continue.

“We, ah, were studying a few of the more likely candidates,” he went on, not sure how or why he had not gotten a sneering comment from Anders regarding his lack of education, but grateful nonetheless, “When we heard the guards running down the hallway outside the door. We knew we had only seconds to escape, and not through the door. I, er, I tried to phase through the back wall, phase both of us through the wall,” he clarified when he thought he saw a flicker of light spark in Anders’ eyes. “But I couldn’t do it. I could move through, certainly; however, I couldn’t extend my ability to encompass Hrodwynn, nothing more than a hand or a foot.”

He pressed his knuckles at his lip again, staring Hawke straight in the eyes, his expression honest and sincere and withholding nothing. “I wasn’t going to leave her. I was determined to get us both out of there, either phasing or fighting. Only on the last attempt I made, she shifted out of the way and pulled herself from my grasp. I had too much momentum… I couldn’t stop… I phased through without her.”

“Damn,” Hawke sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sounds to me like she sacrificed herself, so you could get away and find help.”

“That thought occurred to me as well,” Fenris agreed, “Which is why I came here straightaway.”

Despite learning that it had been Hrodwynn’s intent for Fenris to get away, Anders wanted to stay mad, his arms crossed, his lips pouting, his brows drawn. “Why didn’t you go back for her?”

“I was already outside,” Fenris sighed, decidedly not admitting to how tired he was, or how much phasing hurt him. “And by the time I could get back there, she would undoubtedly already be under arrest, in chains, surrounded by guards. I might have had a chance, with her free and armed at my side, but not with her held as a hostage to be used against me. I had to leave her and go for help. I didn’t want to, Hawke,” he sighed, his dead green eyes seemed to grow a little life into them, his earnestness so sincere. “I truly did not intend to leave her.”

“I believe you,” Hawke nodded, accepting his sincerity. “Besides, this isn’t hopeless, yet,” he stated.

“How so?” Anders demanded, almost eager for a new topic to moan about. “She was caught, in front of an opened safe, probably with her lock picking tools everywhere… Oh, Wynnie, you poor, defenseless girl.”

“She’s not defenseless,” Fenris argued, fed up with his pessimism. “She’s quite resourceful. Has a sharp mind. A capable fighter with her daggers. An excellent lock picker. Not to mention her knowledge of healing herbs and potions. And she managed to help me escape, trusting I’d come here to you.”

Anders scoffed; though he couldn’t argue with Fenris’ praise, he could still find something to nitpick. “I’d never thought I’d hear you say anything complimentary about Wynnie.”

The elf lowered his gaze and remained mute. If Anders wanted the last word, fine, he’d let him have it. The important thing now was for Hawke to figure out a way to get Hrodwynn out of trouble.

“Finished?” Hawke demanded, looking from one to the other. Assured of their silence, he started again, “As I was saying, this isn’t hopeless. First, we go and speak with Aveline. I know, I know, she said last week that she couldn’t interfere, but maybe she’s had an idea since then. It’s worth it, to try to work through the legal channels first. There are diplomatic channels to try as well, through my connection with the Viscount. Perhaps he can convince the Orlesians to have Hrodwynn tried in a Kirkwall court, since she is a citizen.”

“And if neither one can help us?” Anders pressed.

Hawke looked over at Fenris. “Then it’ll be up to you.”


	19. Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone comments… No, the title of this chapter, “Done,” does not mean I’m done with the story. Still loads more to tell. Hopefully one more chapter early next week, before I cycle on to another of my stories.  
> Also, I always feel like I’m giving too much away, putting warnings in at the beginning of chapters. I mean, this story is rated E. You should expect /some/ parts will be hard to read, right? Right? *ahem* Anyway…  
> The following chapter contains scenes of intense emotional and/or physical suffering.

Hrodwynn blinked, the sunlight so bright it stung her eyes. She was being marched into the courtyard in front of the Orlesian Embassy, still on the Embassy grounds, though the gates were open to allow the citizens of Kirkwall to witness Orlesian justice. It seemed slightly ridiculous to her, a slim young woman like herself, in chains so heavy her guards had to carry the links, but she did have to admit that it made for a dramatic statement. That she was being made an example of was obvious—having her trial so public and in the middle of the day was a bold statement that Orlais would not tolerate any criminal activity on their soil, by any person or persons, from any citizenship. Yet try as she might, she could not find a way to turn this to her advantage. And after Jaxon’s visit, she had received no word from Hawke or anyone that they were planning something—anything, an escape, a pardon, a change of venue…

She feared she was on her own.

Unseen by her watering eyes, towards the back of the crowd that had gathered beyond the gates, stood an elf with shocking white hair. His lifeless green eyes followed Hrodwynn’s every movement, drinking in every detail. He noted the fading bruise over one eye; it must have been swollen shut at one point, though she could open it now. She stumbled up the platform steps acting dizzy and weak, and he feared she hadn’t been fed in the four days since her arrest. When the guards kicked the backs of her knees, forcing her to kneel before the trio of judges, he started forward.

“Take it easy,” Brekker cooed from where he stood next to Fenris. Unthinkingly he had grabbed the elf’s arm to stop him. Though he succeeded in keeping Fenris from storming the stage, the look on the man’s face made Brekker let go.

Fenris didn’t speak, he didn’t have to—his dead, emotionless eyes telling all there was to say.

Brekker didn’t back down. “Relax. Let it play out. I’ve got a man on the inside, see?” he nodded at the stage. “If there’s one thing I know about Orlesians, it’s that they love a good show; that’s why her trial’s so public. My man will give them a performance that’ll bring tears to their eyes. Purely out of pity, they’ll give her a light sentence. Just watch.”

Hrodwynn stared in confusion at the man beside her. She didn’t know him, had never even seen him before, but he was addressing the judges on her behalf. He spoke and gestured with dramatic flare, his voice rising and falling with emotion, as he described her hard life growing up on the streets of Kirkwall. With a tear in his eye, he told the judges how she was an orphan, with no memory of her past or her family. He swept his arms as her story swept on, how she’d nearly been forced into a life of prostitution, yet chose thievery as a lesser—though necessary—evil. She wanted to laugh, thinking there was no way anyone could believe him, and wondered how he’d gotten so much information so quickly…

Anders. Anders knew all about her past. And of course, Hawke would know. Had this man been sent by Hawke, she wondered, to speak in her defense?

“Does the accused have anything she wishes to say to the court?”

Hrodwynn looked dully at the judges, then up at her defender, then back again.

“Beg,” a whisper reached her ears. It came from her defender. She looked at him again just in time to see him speak from the corner of his mouth, “Beg for mercy. And make it good. The showier the better.”

“Ah,” she licked her lips, turning back to the trio of judges, trying desperately to think of something to say, “If it pleases you, your lordships,” she weakly tried to gain her feet, but at a hiss from her defender, she thought better of it. She plopped back down to her knees and tried to act exhausted, defeated, too downtrodden to stand, as she lifted her face and cried, “Mercy!”

There was a moment of silence after her cry, a moment she seized with all her might. “I throw myself on the mercy of the court. Please, your lordships, please show me mercy. It’s true, yes, that I have done some things I’m not proud of.” Her eyes were still watering from the brightness of the sunlight, and she used that to blink tears down her cheeks. “I’ve picked pockets. I’ve stolen purses. I’ve even raided a few market stalls—but it’s never been for profit! Every time I stole, it was only enough to survive.

“I know the hardships in my life are no excuse,” she shook her head remorselessly, the next moment lifting her clasped hands upwards, chains and all, as she continued to plea, “But please, good sers, show mercy. Nothing was taken, nothing was stolen, so no harm has been done. Even the safe is intact. Please, your lordships, this is the first time I’ve attempted something so grand, so foolish, and I promise you it will be the last! Please, show mercy.”

The middle judge stared at her with eyes of steel. “We will consider.”

The judges bent their heads together, conversing, deciding her fate. “You stupid bitch,” her defender whispered at her without moving his lips, “I had you in the clear! Now you're fucked.”

“What?” she whispered back, bewildered, only daring to lift her head far enough to peek at him out of the corner of her eye. “What did I do wrong? You told me to beg for mercy.”

“I never told you to mention the safe. Now everyone here has heard that a safe was involved, and everyone knows you can crack it!”

“They knew that before…”

“The Coterie, sure, they’ve known you can crack a Siggerdson, or I wouldn’t be here.” He finally looked down at her, his expression grim, “But not the general public. And definitely not the City Guard, who are going to be keeping a close eye on you from now on, no doubt, making you useless to us!” He looked back upwards to stare straight ahead at the judges’ table. “Fuck. It’s a matter of record, now. The Orlesians are going to have to make a public example of you.”

Hrodwynn didn't think she'd have any more trouble from Aveline than before, but she wasn't going to tell him that. Something in what he had just said sending warning shivers down her spine, and she had to ask, “Who sent you?”

“Brekker.”

Fuck, she agreed to herself.

“He doesn’t believe what Jaxon told him you said.”

“What?” she repeated, bewildered, the next moment remembering. “Oh, Jaxon! What did that mother fucker tell him I said?”

“Don’t know, and it doesn’t matter,” the man shrugged. “Brekker told me to get you as light a sentence as possible. That’s really all I know or care about. Oh, but I was supposed to tell you,” he glanced down at her again, “Don’t bother tattling on Jaxon, when you get out. He needs Jaxon more than he needs you, especially now that he has your friend.”

Hrodwynn felt her heart drop to her feet, er, knees at least. “Fenris…” Oh, Maker, she prayed, he must have gone to Brekker for help, rather than Hawke. The stupid git!

“Accused,” the middle judge proclaimed, apparently having reached a consensus with the other two. She looked up at him, but the eager expression on his face, and the pitying expressions on the other two, did little to ease her nerves. “By your own words and of your own free will, you have admitted to numerous past crimes. And you have convicted yourself of the charges against you, those of breaking and entering, and attempted robbery against the Orlesian government. Though the court recognizes the fact that you have had a difficult childhood,” his face briefly flickered to something akin to cynicism, “That is still no excuse for you to turn to a life of crime. We feel it is our civic duty to discourage you from continuing down this path of evil. Therefore, it is our judgement that you are be tied to the post, stripped to the waist, and given the lash for your crimes—the sentence to be executed immediately.” There was an increase in crowd noise at this, though she couldn’t tell if it was protest or anticipation, her ears already ringing with the finality of her sentence. “It is also this court’s decision, however,” he lifted his voice to be heard over the uproar, “That you are to be shown mercy. You will be given only five lashes. Judgement has been delivered. May the Maker have mercy on your soul.” He pounded a heavy mallet on the table three times.

Shit, Hrodwynn thought, feeling her heart race. Shit shit shit!

There was a group of City Guardsmen just beyond the gates. “Damn it!” Hawke cursed from their midst, trying to start forward, to push his way through the crowd, to reach Hrodwynn and fight off the Orlesian guards and escape…

“Hawke! Stop!” Aveline’s gauntleted hand on his arm closed until it hurt. Several of her guardsmen physically blocked his path, though thankfully without having to draw their weapons. “We can’t interfere!”

“They’re going to flay her…”

“Five lashes isn’t a death sentence,” she told him. “She’ll survive this. And Anders can heal her as soon as she’s released.”

Damn it, Hawke swallowed guiltily, thinking about Anders. He was safely tucked away, ignorant in his clinic, healing the people of Darktown, doing what he loved. Hawke had purposely misled him, telling him her trial was tomorrow, so he wouldn’t have to witness this in case things went poorly—which they did.

Anders was going to pay him back tenfold for every mark on Hrodwynn’s skin.

Shit… Hrodwynn was moaning inside her head. Her wrists were chained above her on the post, with enough slack that she could stand on her feet. A sympathetic guard moved in front of her for a moment, seeming to be checking her shackles. Instead she held a strap of reinforced leather, thick and inflexible like an old knife handle, up against her closed lips. “Bite on this,” she whispered, “It’ll help.”

Hrodwynn hesitated. She wanted to be strong, to show them she wasn’t afraid, to not scream or cry or give any sign of weakness… But she was weak. She was afraid. And she was practical. Shedding bitter tears, she opened her mouth and took the gag.

Shiiiiiiiiit, she thought to herself, this is really happening. She supposed she should feel thankful that they weren’t making her wait, that they were carrying her sentence out quickly without making her sit and stew for days, burning up with anxious anticipation.

The guard behind her gave a practice flick, snapping the lash on empty air. She jumped anyway, the gag helping to stifle her startled shout. Almost immediately after that first crack, another followed, this time igniting a line of fire across her shoulders.

She hadn’t the air in her lungs to scream, having expelled it earlier, but she did gasp loudly around the gag. Breathing in expanded her lungs, pulled the broken skin further apart, deepened the wound.

Shit shit shitshitshitshit…

Another lash, cracking loudly as if lightning had struck her, filling her ears, voiding all other noises. Her body jerked, her knees growing weak, and she dangled from her wrists for a moment, pulling the wounds in a new direction. She groaned, tried to get her feet beneath her, tried to ease the strain on her arms and shoulders, tried to lessen the feeling of molten lava melting down her back.

A third lash, and her body reacted of its own will, trying to get away, trying to pull herself free, trying to climb over or even through the post. Already she was too weak, in too much pain, to make any coordinated effort to escape, her body growing clumsy and limp. The thick wooden post filled her vision as her forehead fell against the stained and splintered wood, her breath blowing around the leather strap like a gale, her teeth clenched so tightly she may have cracked a tooth.

The fourth lash fell across her back, but it was already too late. Hrodwynn had had enough. Her consciousness was pulling away, pulling inside, withdrawing from her overloaded senses, blocking off every avenue of sensory input, denying her reality. The sight of the post and the guards milling about just beyond it darkened into night. The sounds from the crowd faded into a summer breeze. The taste of copper on her tongue turned to water. The smell of blood and piss and sweat washed away. The feel of the sun across her skin eroded into the abyss surrounding her.

She never knew the fifth and final lash.

“You said she would be given a warning and then released!” Fenris’s forearm was across Brekker’s throat, his markings alive despite the mass of witnesses. He wanted to kill the lying bastard. Yes, he remembered—belatedly—that Hawke needed Fenris to find out what Brekker was planning against him, but if Brekker was dead, his plan died with him, and Hawke and their friends would be just as safe.

“That was the plan!” Brekker choked. “But she slipped up and mentioned the safe, so the Orlesians had to make an example of her. Now let me go; you’re already drawing too much attention.”

Fenris shoved him harder against the building, using that force to propel himself back. His markings continued to glow, rippling up and down his limbs where they showed around his armor. “I should never have trusted you. Our deal is off!”

“Oh, no, no, no, my knife eared friend,” Brekker rubbed his throat, “You’re mine.”

“The deal was,” Fenris countered, remembering the strategy Hawke hatched as they left the Keep. Aveline hadn’t been able to help Hrodwynn; neither could the Viscount—despite how much he owed Hawke. Hawke, however, had come up with the brilliant idea that Fenris should go and seek Brekker’s help. “The deal was, you would get Hrodwynn acquitted, and I would come work for you.”

“No, the deal is,” Brekker was already shaking his head, and asserting the present tense, “You will come work for me as soon as Hrodwynn is released. Those were your own exact words. Truthfully, I was hoping she’d be left off with only a warning, but I expected they would have imprisoned her for a time, thirty days at the most. Which would have happened, if she hadn’t mentioned the safe, mistakenly trying to impress the judges with that sharp tongue of hers. But look at it this way: she’ll be out a lot sooner now.”

“What do you mean?” Fenris asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Her sentence is over, right? The guards will take her down, bring her back inside, and as soon as she wakes up, they’ll kick her out on the street through some back door and be done with her. I expect she’ll be free, oh,” he paused to squint up at the early afternoon sun, “Sometime after midnight, maybe early morning. Depends how long she stays passed out.”

The leather of Fenris’ gauntlet creaked, the overlapping metal plates clacked, but the otherworldly glow from his markings faded. Without another word he turned on his heel and started stalking towards the alley running alongside the Embassy.

“Where are you going?” Brekker called out. He hated to do it, but he started after him, not wanting the elf to get away.

“To find the back door!” he snarled back, turning his head just far enough to allow his voice to carry. “Soon as she’s free and back home safe and sound, I’ll meet you in Darktown. You have my word.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Brekker eased his steps to a standstill. “I’ll know it too, when she’s released. If you try anything…” he left the sentence hanging.

Fenris left it hanging, as well.

* * *

Pain.

That was her first sensation, like an infant being born, taking that first breath, gushing like a hurricane into lungs that had never held air before. She inhaled, and her wounds screamed into life.

The only reason she didn’t cry out as she exhaled was because she was too weak, only able to manage a whimpering sort of moan.

“Told you she’d wake up with a little encouragement,” a faceless voice spoke somewhere beyond her vision.

The toe of a boot prodded her ribs again, a little on the harsh side, and Hrodwynn gasped. Instinctively she curled inwards on that side, trying to protect herself. The twisting movement opened up new levels of pain across her back, five of them to be precise, a few of them intersecting each other’s paths.

“Knock it off,” another voice sounded, feminine, and far more sympathetic in tone as well as words.

“The sooner she’s awake, the sooner we can kick her outside. And as soon as we kick her outside, we’re off duty. And I’m getting tired and grouchy, spending half the night waiting for her to wake the fuck up!”

“I know, but the poor girl’s been through enough. So back off.”

There was the sound of scuffling followed by a masculine grunt. Hrodwynn opened her eyes in time to see the offending boot and its partner removed from her vicinity. A moment later and a face came into view, and Hrodwynn recognized the guard who had given her the leather strap to chew. “Here, you are awake. Do you think you can you sit up? Take it easy, nice and slow, and try not to bend or twist your back.”

Hrodwynn wanted to retort, that such a thing was easier said than done, but she couldn’t risk opening her mouth. She clamped down on her breath, snapping her jaw shut and closing off her throat, anything to keep from letting the scream out. Her hands seized the guard’s arms, either to help reach her feet or in an attempt to fight her off—Hrodwynn couldn’t tell, nor could she be bothered to find out. But after an agonizing moment, she amazedly found herself standing, her backside braced against a wall, her forehead resting on the guard’s shoulder.

“There, there, take a moment to catch your breath. It’ll get easier, you’ll see.”

The other guard made a disgusted noise. “Fuck it! Coddle her if you want, but our job’s done. She’s up. The door’s there. I’m out of here!”

Neither the other guard nor Hrodwynn cared to watch him leave.

“Got your legs under you yet?” she asked solicitously.

Hrodwynn nodded, not because she thought she could stand on her own, but because she was suffering an overwhelming desire to get out of there before they changed their minds…

She gulped down a lungful of air, trying to steady her heartbeat, trying to push away the panic. It was over. It was all over. She was alive. She was free. All she had to do now was get to Anders and he would make everything better. “…door…?”

“I suppose you would wish to leave here as soon as possible; and no, I don’t blame you, not after what you’ve been through. The door’s right here, Kitten.”

“Button,” Hrodwynn corrected, her mind slightly befuddled. It was easier, safer, to not think about things, not important or relevant things anyway. Silly little nicknames was a safe subject. “She called Merril Kitten, so he started calling me Button instead.”

“Who did?” the guard asked, not really caring for the answer, just trying to keep the young woman talking and awake and moving. “Who called you Button?”

They paused while the guard opened the door. Hrodwynn blinked at her, trying to remember what they were talking about. “My friend, he calls me Button.”

“Oh, well,” the guard helped her over the threshold, “I hope your friend is waiting for you. And I hope he’s someone who can keep you out of trouble from now on.”

“He watches out for me, sure,” she shrugged. Immediately her back, from her shoulders to just beneath her ribs, screeched in excruciating pain. She gasped and staggered a few steps before managing to find a wall. She leaned one hand against the unmoving stone, keeping herself as still as possible while waiting for the waves of fire to ebb. When she finally found her voice, when she was finally able to turn around to thank the guard for her kindness, she found herself alone in the alley, the door to the Embassy closed tight. “Thanks,” she whispered anyway.

Hrodwynn turned around again, using the wall for support, and started for the end of the alley. She had to get her bearings first, then she’d make for Hawke’s mansion. She didn’t think she could make it all the way to Anders’ clinic in Darktown, but at this time of night, he was probably with Hawke, anyway.

She paused and looked around her, suddenly wondering why no one was here for her. Surely the scene today had been noised about the town, the young would-be thief publicly flogged for breaking into the Orlesian Embassy. Surely her friends would have realized she was the thief, that she was in trouble, and come to either try to break her out, or be here to pick her up. Hawke should have been here at the very least. And with him, Anders. Even if Fenris—the bloody stupid git—had mistakenly gone to Brekker for help…

That thought stopped her completely. She had risked all this, just so Fenris could get away and find Hawke and somehow—some way—get her out of this mess. But he hadn’t. He had failed her. He had gone to Brekker instead, who had probably coerced him into doing some Coterie business in payment for that help. That’s why no one was here. No one knew she had gotten caught. No one knew she needed help.

Because Fenris had abandoned her.

There were footsteps coming up behind her, soft and nearly silent, like the padding of bare feet. Perfect, just fucking perfect, she thought to herself, turning around and preparing herself as best she could for a fight. She had been freed not a moment ago, and already she was going to get jumped on by thieves or cutthroats or slavers or rapists or…

“Fenris!” she cried, recognizing his unruly mop of white hair, shining in the moonlight. The next moment she nearly screamed as he reached out for her, trying to wrap his arms around her. “Maker-damn-it-Fenris-don’t-touch-my-back!”

“Sorry,” he quickly apologized, removing his hands and holding them, palms outwards, though ready to grab her if she looked like she would fall over. Which was exactly how she appeared. “Sorry, I’m only trying to help.”

“Help?” she panted, having to try three times before she could make the word coherent. “I needed your help earlier, while I was still in jail, before I was publicly tried and flogged!”

She tensed; yelling at him was taking too much effort, too much strength, too much movement. She leaned—carefully—against the wall with one elbow and a hip making contact with the solid stone.

“I did what I could,” he answered, not quite as heatedly, but just as assuredly. “After you forced me to phase through the wall without you,” he saw her eyes narrow and thought maybe he shouldn’t have reminded her of that part, “I went straight to Hawke. And Anders.” She softened a little at the mention of her friend.

“They do know,” she paused to swallow, “What happened to me?”

“They do,” he affirmed, staring into her eyes, willing her to stay conscious. “Hawke immediately went to the Keep, but neither Aveline nor the Viscount could do anything. That’s when I went to Brekker for help. I joined his gang. In return, he was to see about getting you released.”

“I know that part,” she waved her hand in a vague direction, “The man defending me told me, but it was still… stupid….”

“It was Hawke’s idea.”

“…no excuse…”

“It works out. Even though Brekker wanted the two of us working for him, this way he at least gets me, and with less suspicion regarding my motives or loyalties. Remember, we do need someone on the inside of his organization, to find out what he wants with Hawke.”

“Fuck Hawke!” she all but shouted into the night’s shadows, unthinkingly throwing one arm wide for emphasis.

Fenris saw her face drain of color, her chest stop moving with breath, her eyes widen and shine with moisture. “Hrodwynn?” he reached out hesitantly, wanting to touch her, not sure if she would let him. “Your face is turning gray. Perhaps you should sit down for a moment. Rest. Catch your breath.”

“I…” she gasped, her back feeling like molten lava again, slowly oozing downwards, each breath reenergizing the agony. Someone had given her an old tunic to wear, but the fabric was coarse and scratchy, catching the edges of her wounds and tugging on the loose bits of skin and flesh. There was a spreading gooeyness, a clinging cloyingness that she knew was her blood, soaking through the tunic and down into the waistband of her leggings. She was hurt, she was tired, the only person here for her wasn’t a friend but the one man who hated her…!

And now he was going to see her cry.

“I’m done,” she said softly. Defeatedly. Finally.

“It’s over,” he agreed.

“No, I mean it, Fenris,” she sniffed. “I’m done. With all of it. I’m done with Brekker. I’m done with the lies. I’m done with pretending. I’m done hating you. I’m just… done…”

Fenris couldn’t stand there, dispassionately, and watch her break into tears. Hurt or no, loathing him or no, phantom dangers or no, he was going to touch her. He was going to offer her comfort. He was going to help carry her burdens. He took her upper arms and pulled her towards his chest, one hand moving to the back of her head to rest her against him. He could sense that her struggle within his grasp was more token than honest, and smiled a little when she gave in. He held her carefully, mindful of her injuries, mindful of the spikes on his armor, and whispered so gently into her ear it felt like a kiss, “So am I.”

Silently she cried, her head beside his, her chin over his shoulder. Inaudibly the tears slipped down her cheeks. Mutely she let it all go, the suffering, the pain, the fear, the anger, the worry, the contingencies, the machinations, the subterfuges. It was all over, all said and done, all of it behind her—at least for this one moment.

He heard her breathing slow closer to normal, felt her hands slide down to his hips, saw her head bob as she began to pull away. He let her, having done what he needed to do—what she needed him to do. “We should get going. Do you think you can walk?”

She didn’t speak, didn’t nod or shake her head, but started down the alley, making it all of two steps before stumbling.

“This isn’t going to work.” Fenris jumped ahead of her, catching her as she swayed. She hissed slightly but allowed his touch, mostly because he was doing everything he could to leave her back alone. “Here, lean against the wall for a moment,” he set her hand on the stone.

All the fight was out of her, all the energy, all the thought. She was finished, past the point of being able to care; someone else could come up with all the ideas from now on thank-you-very-much, and Fenris seemed more than willing. Disinterestedly she watched him take his greatsword off his back, sheath and all. He leaned it against the wall next to her, and she had the funny idea of her and the sword being one and the same, something he carried with him nearly everywhere, something he needed and used almost daily, something that caused him strain and effort. Her fingertips reached out and brushed where the sheath had been resting on his back, finding the leather housing still warm.

“Your turn.”

She looked up at him, her emerald eyes dull. Fenris held her gaze a moment before he slowly presented her with his back, craning his neck to try to maintain eye contact. He squatted down, his hands over his shoulders, open and ready for her to take hold. She did so, not really understanding what was happening, what his intensions were, not until he brought her hands around in front of him and made her clasp her own forearms. Next he gripped her thighs, hoisting her up as he stood, wrapping her legs around his hips. He waited a moment, but when she seemed like she would be able to hold on, he picked his sword up in one hand, kept his other on her arms around his neck, and started on his way.

The plan was to bring her to Hawke’s mansion, but his was closer, and the sooner he had them off the streets, the better. Besides, she was in no danger of dying, no danger of bleeding out; what she needed most right then was to rest.

Hrodwynn didn’t remember the journey back to Fenris’ mansion, not at the time. Later on she would be able to think back over that night, recall the sound of a City Guard patrol the next street over, the smell of roses blooming in a neighbor’s garden, the softness of unruly white hair tickling her cheek. But at the time she simply hung there off of Fenris’ back and absorbed it all, dispassionately, disinterestedly, disconnectedly.

It wasn’t until she was met with eyes so intensely blue they rivaled the sky, that she was able to come out of her stupor.

* * *

“You could have told me!” Anders groused, stalking down the early morning streets of Kirkwall.

Hawke rolled his eyes, luckily overlooked by Anders, as he was hard pressed to keep up with the healer. Fenris, too, looked slightly winded, jogging to keep pace.

“I should have been there!”

Hawke had tried reasoning with the man, after Fenris showed up without Hrodwynn. They hadn’t told Anders anything, not that Hrodwynn’s trial had already occurred, or that she’d been sentenced to the lash, or even that Fenris was to bring her to the mansion after she’d been released. He knew Anders would be upset, and he had been counting on Hrodwynn’s presence to keep him calmer.

Fenris fucked that up—again. He knew it was unfair, but it seemed to him that the elf went out of his way to piss Anders off.

“I could have stopped them! Justice… could have…”

“No!” Hawke hastened his steps and grabbed Anders’ arm. “No, don’t go there. That’s the very reason we didn’t tell you, in case…”

“In case I couldn’t stay in control?” Anders finished for him. His mocha brown eyes studied Hawke’s amber orbs. “You don’t trust me, do you.”

“That’s not fair,” Hawke denied, trying to turn the tables. “Bloody shite, even I nearly stormed the Embassy, after her sentence had been pronounced. Aveline practically broke my arm, keeping me in check. Would you have wanted that? To force me to do you harm?” He yanked the mansion door open for them all.

Anders didn’t answer Hawke, he couldn’t, instead seizing the one topic of conversation that was currently safe. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” Fenris answered, trying not to sound like a bellows, “In her room. Sebastian is keeping her company.”

“Sebastian?” Anders paused on the bottom step. “Who's Sebastian? Are you telling me, you left her alone with some strange man…?”

“He’s a Brother in the Chantry,” Fenris protested mildly, passing him on the stairs, “I doubt her virtue was in any danger.”

Anders huffed but let the matter go, hearing Hrodwynn’s voice from above. “Anders…?”

“I’m here, Wynnie,” he lifted his face to answer.

The three men burst into the bedchamber almost as one. Hrodwynn was sitting stiffly on a low couch, facing a man who’s back was to the door. He turned when they entered, and Hawke finally recognized where he had heard the name Sebastian before.

“Anders!” she cried, overriding any thought Hawke had of the stranger. She didn’t stand, but Anders came to her, nearly pushing the man off the couch in an effort to take hold of her.

“Wynnie! I’m sorry, Wynnie, I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me. Or I would’ve been there. I would’ve stopped it.”

“No. It’s alright. I know you would’ve. It’s over now.”

Hawke felt uncomfortable, thinking about all Hrodwynn had been through, feeling responsible for at least part of it, and knowing Anders was going to have to take her tunic off before he could heal her. “We should, er, give her some privacy,” he suggested, nodding towards the hallway.

“Just a moment,” Anders commanded, having shifted around to look at her back, “I’m going to need a few things first.”

“What do you need?” Sebastian asked, taking a step closer. He’d been enjoying his conversation with the young lady, and though she was a criminal—as if he could judge her for that—he didn’t feel she had deserved such a brutal sentence. He wanted to help her in any way possible.

“Some hot water,” Anders ticked off on his fingers, “A bit of soap, and towels. Lots of towels.”

“How much hot water?” Fenris asked, wondering if he should bring a bucket into the room, or if it would be easier to bring Hrodwynn to the water closet.

“Enough to soak the towels. The blood on your back has soaked into your tunic, Wynnie,” he said gently. “It’s half dried already. The fabric’s stuck to you like glue. I could cut the rest of the tunic away, but one part will still be adhering to your wounds…”

“Just rip it off,” she grimaced, already bracing herself, “Quick and clean.”

“You’ll start bleeding again,” he shook his head. “Let me do this my way. We’ll soak the towels in the hot water, and put them over your back, loosening the blood. It’ll take a little time, but it will be easier in the long run. Trust me, alright? This is what I do.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, but had to turn away again as the position was pulling on her wounds. “Of course I trust you.”

Fenris came back into the room, no one had seen him leave, but he was carrying a bucket of water and several towels draped over one arm. Handing the towels off to Anders, he set the bucket next to the hearth, where earlier a fire had been stoked into life, probably by Sebastian. He picked up a couple of loose bricks with a pair of tongs and dropped them into the bucket. “That should heat the water,” he stated, getting a face full of steam for his troubles.

“Thank you, Fenris,” Hrodwynn said before Anders could find something to criticize.

“If there’s nothing else,” Hawke was already moving towards the door, “We’ll be just outside.”

“Er, yes, we should excuse ourselves,” Sebastian agreed. He did step back to stand before Hrodwynn, however, and held his hand out for hers. She gave it, looking a little befuddled, and even managed a blush when he bent over their hands, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hrodwynn.”

She felt the warmth across her cheeks, and the silly flip-flop in her chest, but stuttered, “I’m no, er, lady. Just, um, Hrodwynn.”

“Are you sure? You look like…” he caught Anders’ glare from behind her back as he accepted a bar of soap from Fenris, who was also glaring at him. “Ah, well, no matter. I hope you are feeling well soon. And I look forward to seeing you again sometime.” He bowed once more before turning to follow Hawke out of the room, Fenris bringing up the rear, almost as if he was making sure Sebastian left.

“What a delightful young lady,” Sebastian chatted in the hallway. “You should bring her to the Chantry one of these days…”

“I’ll extend the offer,” Fenris grumbled low, feeling uncomfortable over the mentioning of his visits to the Chantry.

“You… attend service? At the Chantry?” Hawke couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I only go there on business,” Fenris denied, lifting his chin and straitening his shoulders.

“Speaking of which,” Sebastian snapped his fingers, “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to hire you again, for another food hand-out.”

“Where and when?” Fenris asked with a sigh, feeling like his calendar was overflowing these days.

“Halfway between the Hanged Man and the docks, there's an entrance into Darktown. We'll be handing out food two blocks south of there. Tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

Fenris nodded, his expression grim. “I can’t make any promises, but I will be there if I am able.”

“The Sisters and I will appreciate it. And this time,” he leaned a little too close into Fenris’ personal space, “Please, accept your payment, with our gratitude.”

He lifted his chin again. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“It happens every time,” Sebastian said, more to Hawke than Fenris. “We hire Fenris for protection, pay him, and a few days later the same leather pouch we gave him is found inside the box where we collect donations for the poor.”

“I don’t see how you can think that comes from me,” he continued, fruitlessly, to deny. “A leather pouch is a leather pouch, one looks very much the same as another…”

“Last time I left a note inside the pouch, thanking you for your services. The pouch, its coin, and the note, were all found together.” He looked back at Hawke, “I won’t insult him by handing the money over, again, but I don’t see how he can afford to live here if he keeps giving away all his coin.”

“You should probably get going,” Fenris suggested, strongly. “If I can, I’ll be there, tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

“So will I,” Hawke promised. Sebastian looked at him sharply, but he simply shrugged, “Not that I need the coin, certainly, but you and the Sisters do need protection in that part of town. And I am somewhat handy with a staff,” he shrugged his shoulders, shifting the weapon in emphasis.

“Ah, now I remember you!” Sebastian’s features eased. “You helped me out, a couple of years ago, with that mercenary group.”

“What’s this?” Anders asked, coming out of Hrodwynn’s room and closing the door firmly behind him.

“It was before we met,” Hawke answered in an aside. “How’s Hrodwynn?”

“Resting,” he replied, “But your voices are carrying through the door, so if you don’t mind…?” he made a shooing motion down the hallway.

“I was just leaving, anyway,” Sebastian nodded, acquiescing to Anders’ suggestion. “Please, give the lady my regards. And I look forward to working with you again, Ser Hawke. Ser,” he nodded at Anders. “Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow, Fenris.”

“You know this man?” Anders asked, gesturing at the Brother.

“I’ll explain later,” Hawke answered, firmly taking his arm and marching him towards the stairs. “Come on, love, you said it, she needs rest, not an overprotective, self-appointed uncle hovering over her all day. Let’s leave her be. We’ll let ourselves out, Fenris. Goodbye.”

Anders huffed, but he didn't try to pull out of his grasp. “Make sure she gets plenty of rest,” he called out as Hawke dragged him down the stairs after Sebastian. “And don’t aggravate her! And don’t think I’ve let you—either of you—off the hook for keeping this from me!”

“I’m sure Fenris will take very good care of her,” Sebastian unnecessarily defended him, and placed himself firmly in Anders’ crosshairs. “The young lady told me herself that he acts the perfect gentleman around her…”

“Don’t presume you know anything about…”

“We really should be going…”

Fenris listened to their voices crashing over each other, until the closing of the main door silenced them. He stood for a moment, listening to the quiet around him, the soft creak of settling timbers, the squeak of a rusty hinge as one of the cats pushed a door open. This was how he liked it, silent and still and dark. And alone.

Until the sound of someone crying penetrated through his senses. He knew he should get going, that Brekker would be expecting him soon, but he couldn’t leave Hrodwynn like this, crying alone and abandoned in this sorry excuse for a home. He went up to her door and knocked his knuckles gently on the wood.

He heard a startled gasp from inside, followed a moment later by her timid response, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Fenris,” he answered, wanting to open the door, but respecting her privacy. “I, er, I was wondering, I mean, I have to leave for a bit. I thought I’d check on you before I go.”

He heard shuffling from within, the scrape as a piece of furniture was bumped into, followed by a soft curse and some stumbled steps. The next moment Hrodwynn pulled the door open and stood there. He could tell from the smell of soap and the dampness on the ends of her hair, that she had been cleaning up. She also wore a fresh pair of leggings, but was clutching a blanket around her bare shoulders. Her room was in disarray, her pack upended over her bed and the contents strewn and shoved this way and that. The chest in the room lay open and in a similar state as her pack. “Oh, um, I thought you’d left with the others. Anders said you needed to check in with Brekker.”

“I didn’t, I do, I mean,” he paused and lifted a hand, wanting to touch her face where there was a stubborn lock of hair curled wetly against her cheek. But there was still that wary look in her eyes, that exhausted yet enduring guardedness, so he let his hand drop back to his side. “I just wanted to let you know, that I’m leaving now.”

“Alright,” she nodded, one thin arm snaking out from beneath the blanket to brush at the lock. “Do you need me to come with?”

He could tell by the tone of her voice, that she wanted anything but to go with him and see Brekker. “No,” he answered honestly, feeling rewarded somehow when her expression relaxed, “I think it’s better, if we keep you out of Brekker’s clutches. This whole affair has taken its toll on you. Not that you couldn’t spy on Brekker for Hawke,” he quickly cursed his slip, fearing she might think he was slighting her, “But Hawke only needs one of us inside Brekker’s gang. And Brekker wants me more than he wants you.”

She didn't retort right away, which he took as a good sign. “And now he has you,” she agreed.

“Or so he thinks.”

They stood silently staring at each other for a moment.

“I, er, I should go.”

She nodded again, “I guess I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Is there anything…”

“Just go,” she all but moaned, her expression turning pained, “Please.”

Fenris looked at her a moment longer, before nodding and turning away. He had seen the redness on her face, the moisture in her eyes, her possessions thrown about the room, and thought he knew what was causing her concern. The inkling of an idea began to form in his mind, an idea that would—possibly, hopefully—continue to erode the guardedness, ease the hatred, and show her he truly meant what he had said earlier that morning.

He was done, too.


	20. Hope

Hrodwynn stared down at herself, chin tucked in, arms spread wide—and sighed discontentedly. She wore her high-heeled boots, cleaned and buffed of any dirt or scuff marks, a fresh pair of skin-tight, soft leather leggings… and the rough-spun tunic she'd been given upon leaving the Embassy. It was a boring tan color, the fabric stained and not all of if from her, not to mention moth-eaten in some areas and nearly worn through in others. It was tailored to fit a man's frame, so it was too long in the arms and a little tight across her chest.

But, damn it, it was the only tunic available!

She had torn her room apart after everyone left, searching for anything: a spare tunic, an undershirt, even an old rag repurposed to clean her daggers. Bloody Void, she would have settled for a bunch of ribbons she could have woven into a toga. But there was nothing, no scrap of fabric, no oversized scarf, nothing she could wear to cover her torso other than this old, disgusting, sorry excuse for a tunic.

"I need to go shopping," she mumbled to herself.

She had done what she could with the offensive garment, spending most of the morning scrubbing off the blood and gore until her fingers were pruned from all the water. Yet it remained stained, threadbare, and worst of all that dull and lifeless tan color! Wearing it now made her skin crawl, and she seriously considered heading out to do a little shopping that very afternoon. But she was occasionally dizzy, and stiff, and embarrassed, and angry, and wanting to curl up into a little ball and cry…

Not that she hadn't done a fair amount of crying already that morning.

The sound of the main door closing echoed eerily through the mansion, starting her from her thoughts. She brushed aside her fatigue and disgust over her current wardrobe limitations, and picked up her daggers, one in each hand, before creeping towards her bedchamber door. After realizing she would be spending so long living with Fenris—she mentally made a face at that unfortunate turn of phrase—she had insisted on her own room. He had acquiesced without argument, and she did her best not to question his motives, merely thankful for the distance between them.

She eased the door open a crack to allow the sounds to travel better to her ears. The footsteps were soft though solid thuds, without the click of boots, so she assumed it was an elf. And since the steps were sure and measured, and pausing outside Fenris' bedchamber door, she assumed it was him. She eased the door open a little further and snaked her head around the frame, just in time to see his familiar dark form disappear inside.

Hrodwynn closed her door and breathed a heavy sigh, glad there was no danger. Not that she felt she was in any danger of being attacked while living at Fenris' mansion, but after the past couple of weeks, taking anything for granted would be foolish. She twirled her daggers, slipped them into their sheathes on her belt, and sat down on the couch. She picked up a long, thin strip of metal and an old file, and began working on creating a new lock pick. Her tools had been confiscated upon her arrest, and she doubted she'd ever get them back, which meant she had to make herself new ones. Vaguely a tiny bit of nagging guilt tugged at the back of her mind—she had promised to give up her life of crime—but instead she made herself a new vow that she'd never get caught again!

There was a knock on her door, and Fenris' voice drifted in a considerately quiet tone through the wooden portal. "Hrodwynn?"

She looked up from her work and called out in answer, "Come."

The door opened, cautiously, and Fenris slipped his head inside, almost timidly in her opinion. He had a look on his face, something other than his normal emotionless stoicalness. It was strange, almost… well, she couldn't think of the word for it, being so out of place on his features. But it seemed… it was almost… eager anticipation?

"Excuse me, I don't wish to disturb you. I had thought you might be resting."

She made a face and set aside her tools, "Couldn't. There are things I could do, and I'm not sleepy, and just lying in bed waiting to fall asleep was making me crazy."

He watched her stand up, carefully stretching her stiff and sore body as she did so, and felt his body react. She was wearing that old tunic, just as he suspected she might. It looked as if she had put in an effort to clean it, but the fabric was still damp, and straining far too hard across her chest. She must have felt a chill, as her nipples hardened while she walked towards him, and the thinness of the fabric added to the tightness of the fit along with the obvious lack of any small clothes made the twin points even more pronounced. He swallowed and tried to master himself, tried to keep his eyes on hers, tried not to notice the slight tremble that raced through her body. "I, er, brought back some lunch. It's in my chambers."

Hrodwynn felt… there was no word for it, no previous experience she could relate to it. She watched his expression change as she approached, turning from that open and boyishly excited look into something… feral… hungry… chained. It made her feel apprehensive, but not out of fear, and the confusion made her give in to a little shudder. She licked her lips, and tried to sound normal as she answered him. After all, this was nothing out of the ordinary; they often ate their meals together in his chambers. "Sounds good. I'm starving."

"Did you, er," he stepped aside to allow her to proceed him down the hall, thinking to remove her breasts from his sight, but she fell into step beside him. Damn it. "Did they feed you, in prison? I mean, they didn't starve you, did they?" He lifted up the hand between them and scratched an imaginary itch alongside his nose.

"I was fed," she answered, not really wanting to talk about it, but her mouth kept babbling to cover her uneasiness, "Nothing like fresh vegetables or meat, and certainly not very appetizing, but the gruel kept me alive alright. What's for lunch?" she sniffed, smelling something slightly sweet assail her nostrils.

"I wasn't sure what you would like," he held the door open, finally getting her to go first and give his shaking eye muscles a short reprieve, "So I brought a little variety. There's some fresh baked bread, a couple of pot pies, and…"

"Strawberries!" she exclaimed, jumping towards the table. Immediately she plucked one up from the pile, popping it nearly whole into her mouth, barely keeping hold of the stem.

"I wasn't sure if you liked them," he quipped drolly, inwardly pleased over her reaction, "But they were freshly picked this morning, so I took the chance."

"They're wonderful," she moaned ecstatically. The movement of her lips caused a little bit of strawberry-flavored drool to escape the corner of her mouth. She caught it with her hand, glancing with reddening cheeks over her shoulder at him, and mumbled, "Excuse me."

The next moment froze time. She stared at him, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. Fenris was watching her—watching her eat, for the love of Andraste—and smiling like… like… like he was enjoying it. Yes, it was a strawberry, and a juicy and flavorful one at that, but that was no reason for him to… well… act like… act like…

…act like he had done something nice for her, and felt pleased when she enjoyed it.

That couldn't be right, she thought to herself. Fenris was never nice to her. The thought that the strawberries were poisoned crept into her mind, and she had to turn away before he could see how the guilt over the deserved-yet-improbable allegation deepened the blush on her cheeks.

Fenris felt disappointed. For a moment, for one beautiful brief moment, it looked like they were sharing a pleasant experience. She had smiled at him, smiled for him, but just as suddenly as the smile appeared it faded, that old and battered wall of guardedness coming back between them. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, he had spent years building that wall, but he had hoped… He tried to hide the disappointment from her, but the taste of bitterness was strong on his tongue. "I'm glad you like them."

She heard the downward tone in his voice, grating like carriage wheels over gravel, and wondered why he would be disappointed. "Did you, um, meet with Brekker?"

"I did," he seized the change of topic with both hands, walking around her towards the end of the table. "He, ah, doesn't have a job for me yet, but he'll let me know when he does. For now, I'm to act normally around Hawke, and wait for Brekker to contact me." He picked up one of the small pies. "There was something odd, though."

"Oh?" she hummed, not really interested, but wanting to talk. Talking kept her mind from thinking, and she didn't like the confusing and contradictory thoughts currently running through her head. She picked up the other pie, took the seat on his left, and pressed, "What was odd?"

"Well, I can hardly be certain," he hedged, "I don't know what's normal for him. Perhaps this was not out of the ordinary. But on the desk in his office…"

Hrodwynn's brows furrowed as she interrupted him. "He doesn't have an office. He meets in a different place, every time. I mean, sure, there are some things he carries with him from place to place, notes and weapons and stuff to sell, but he doesn't have a permanent, stationary office with a desk and shit."

"He does," Fenris argued, "At least, I assume it's permanent. Down in Darktown, near the abandoned docks, there's a warehouse…"

"Like the one with the sewer entrance?" she swallowed thickly, trying not to remember the time Jaxon stabbed her.

"A couple of doors down, actually. From the number of people coming and going through several back entrances, and the regularity of their schedule, it appeared to be a well established routine. Certainly not some place he'd recently acquired. No, the men and women in his gang knew what they were doing, and where, and when."

Hrodwynn set down her pie, half-finished. "I've never known. He always sent someone to collect me, when he wanted to use my talents. Usually Jaxon. And we always met in a different place. Every time. Guess you got the privilege of seeing where he works, now that you're in his gang."

"Quite probably," he agreed. "Anyway, as I was saying," he looked at her, daring her to interrupt, but she snapped her mouth shut to let him continue, "There was a map on his desk."

"A map?" Oh, how quickly she forgot her unspoken assent to keep quiet.

"Yes," he sighed, "I, er, wasn't able to read any of the names of places, but judging by their placement, I believe it was a map of Kirkwall and the surrounding area. I noticed a few peculiarities on it, and I think I should speak with Hawke this afternoon."

"Why?" She had resumed consumption of her pot pie, and spoke around a mouthful of food.

"Because, if I'm not mistaken, one of the places marked on that map," he picked up a strawberry for himself, "Was that mine Hawke has part ownership in."

"The Bone Pit?"

He nodded.

"Wasn't Hawke planning a trip out there sometime soon?"

"Yes, their caravans are being hijacked. He wants to go there, investigate, see if he can't find out who's doing it."

"Oh, Blessed Andraste," her eyes grew wide, her pie forgotten again. "Do you think… Brekker is behind the hijackings?"

"It is a distinct possibility," he nodded, "Certainly too coincidental, if I'm right and the markings on the map line up with where previous hijackings have taken place. Which is why I want to speak with Hawke."

"He'll know the locations, and if they match…"

"Then we'll know what Brekker is up to."

"And be finished with the bastard," she smiled. "Maker, wouldn't that be a relief? No more pretending? No more awkward moments? No more living together?" Her voice faltered on that last, her eyes shifting towards his, her smile fading in time with his face falling.

"Yes."

Silence fell between them, harsh and sharp, cutting into the happiness and alleviation she should be feeling. If this was something they both wanted, why did neither of them appear happy, she wondered. She stared down at her pie, poking one finger at the cooling and congealing gravy, and tried to think of something to say. "Mind if I tag along with you?"

"No," he said simply, "But do you think you should? Anders wanted you to rest all day…"

"I, um, need to run an errand or two," she looked away, her eyes falling on the pile of strawberries. She snagged another one and picked at the stem, simply to give her fingers something to do.

"What sort of errand? I only ask, to see if I could do it for you. I wouldn't want to be responsible for incurring Anders' wrath by allowing you to exert yourself."

"It's… sort of personal," she elaborated with a shrug. All the leaves had been plucked from the berry, and now she was working on digging out the stem. Fenris didn't verbally press for her to continue, but his silence made her shift uncomfortably in her chair. She swallowed, popped the strawberry into her mouth, chewed it slowly, but eventually she had to answer. "I need a new tunic!"

She didn't know why, but tears were stinging her eyes, hot and bitter and overflowing with embarrassment. She pushed herself back from the table, waving her arms, walking around, looking at everything but Fenris as she explained. "These past couple of weeks, have been kind of hard on my wardrobe. From being stabbed by Jaxon the other week, to what happened at the Embassy yesterday. I'm out of tunics. I just… want to go shopping… find something to wear other than…" Damn the tears spilling down her cheeks.

She stopped in front of the hearth, staring down at the flames, not wanting to face him. It was embarrassing, admitting her vanity to him, but honestly even an arse-hole like Fenris shouldn't expect her to walk around in prison rags!

She didn't hear him come up behind her, not while he was wearing those sole-less, over-zealous shinguards instead of boots. She didn't see his shadow, the dancing light of the fire's flames continually changing the dark patterns across the floor. Yet something told her he was near, something warned her he was standing right behind her, something made her tremble with… It should be fear she was feeling, an overwhelming urge to fight or flee, but it wasn't. Slowly, calmly, trustingly she turned to face him, one hand on the mantle to steady herself, and lifted her eyes to his.

"I have something for you," he admitted. She was amazed, but not that he was standing there holding a package—which was certainly far enough out of place for him it should have surprised her. No, she was amazed at the anxiety tightening the corners of his eyes, flushing his cheeks, quickening his pulse, making the paper-wrapped parcel crinkle as his hands shook. "It, er, caught my eye, on the way back home. I thought, well, I thought of you." Truthfully he had seen it several days ago, and had been agonizing over the decision to buy it for her, when this opportunity arose, giving him the perfect alibi to be nice to her.

She took the package and weighed it in her hands, wondering what it could be. She picked at the knot in the string holding the paper in place, but the twine was tied tightly. She pulled out a dagger, flicked it across the string, sliced it cleanly, and re-sheathed the blade all in one fluid motion. Then, her hands now doing the trembling, she pulled apart the edges of the paper.

As soon as the contents were revealed, both of them froze. Fenris held his breath, wondering what she would make of it; Hrodwynn couldn't breathe, unable to fathom why he would do such a thing. It was a tunic, a brand new tunic, made from expensive silk fabric, and colored a bright green that perfectly matched her eyes. Her fingertips touched the tunic with trepidation, unable or unwilling to believe what she was seeing—what he had done.

"What are you playing at?" she whispered.

"What?" he repeated, bewildered.

"What's the game, Fenris?" she sounded exhausted, fed up, done in. "What's the trap? Am I supposed to wear this, and, I don't know, you tease me for taking favors from you? I can't figure this one out, and frankly I'm too tired to keep trying. So what is it you want from me?"

He had hoped for a better response than this, but he shouldn't have expected anything else. "It's just a tunic. I suspected you were out of them, after what they did to your tunic yesterday, and when I left you this morning I saw you were using a blanket to cover, er, up. I thought… I hoped…"

"Hoped?" she repeated, bewildered. "Hoped? What could you possibly hope for from this?" She lifted her fist up towards his face, bunched full of the silky fabric.

"I meant what I said, earlier this morning: I'm done, too. I'm done lying to you. To myself. I…" he couldn't say it, not to her face, not to those eyes full of pain and distrust. He paced away, hating himself, hating his earlier actions that led them to this situation. Yet he knew it was his fault this was so messed up, and in a fit of self-martyrdom, he pulled back his shoulders and looked her square in the eyes and MADE himself tell her the truth.

"A few years ago, I met this young woman," his voice was breathy. The emotions he'd been denying for so long were clamoring for expression, creating a logjam of feelings that nearly choked the air in his throat. "That very first night, she saw things in me, about me, no one else ever had. And not just that I was bleeding from a festering wound in my back. She came to me, alone and unafraid, to tend my injury. When she saw my markings, she didn't look upon them with envy—as Danarius and so many of his peers had—she looked upon ME… as a person. I wasn't a possession to be flaunted, a symbol of one's status; I was simply a man. She was the first one who ever looked at me in that light. I think…" he swallowed, trying to push the words past the constriction in his throat, "I think, that was the moment I fell in love with you."

She stared at him, the tunic still clutched in one hand, giving no indication that she had heard much less understood what he was trying to say.

He pushed on, not giving her time to consider his words, fearing he'd spoken them too soon, desperate to finish presenting his case. "I didn't understand at first what it was I felt, and when I did, I found myself unwilling to allow it. I don't know if I ever dreamed of having a normal life before this," he flexed his fingers, briefly invoking his markings. "But, certainly in my remembered past, I knew such a thing would be impossible for me. A runaway slave. Branded. Hunted. Always on the move. I assumed I'd have to live my life alone, in fear that, one day, Danarius would catch up to me. And anyone near me, anyone I cherished, would get caught in the crossfire. So I pushed everyone away, including the one woman I love, to keep her safe, to keep them all safe. But, as it has been pointed out to me repeatedly as of late, it's been three years. Three years with no word, no pursuit, no sign of Danarius. It has to be obvious, even to me, that my former master has cut his losses and given up trying to recapture me. Which means, perhaps, it's not too late for me…. for us…"

He stepped towards her, daring himself to touch her, feeling deservedly guilty when she pulled back. He let his hand fall as he finished, "I know, one tunic won't change how you feel towards me. There's too much hate and hurt for that. But if you'll let it be a start, I'll spend every moment from this one forward showing you how much I love you." He dropped his gaze finally, breaking the spell, allowing her to blink. "I don't expect your forgiveness—especially not anytime soon—I only hope for it. Someday."

Hrodwynn didn't speak. She couldn't trust herself to open her mouth, not at that moment, perhaps never again. Fenris had just professed… what… his love for her? Love? When all this time, all these years, he'd been pushing her away, hating her, belittling her… just to protect her from Danarius?

And men claimed women were illogical.

She left the room. She needed to move, needed to distance herself from him, needed to think. She made it all the way back to her chambers and closed the door behind her with a solid and satisfying thunk. She leaned against it, closed her eyes, and just breathed. When she felt calm enough, and brave enough, she opened her eyes and brought a hand to her face, a hand full of the new tunic.

Her eyes watered again at the thoughtfulness of the gift. It was a beautiful green, a bright emerald that, thanks to the sheen of the silken fabric, glittered like the jewel. She held it up to her torso and lamented the lack of a mirror. In a flash she tore off the prisoner rags, almost ripping the fabric in her haste to remove it from proximity to her skin. Then, bare chested, she held the new tunic against her again. Her fingers ran over her limbs covered in silk. It felt wonderful, the fabric cool and clean, not a stitch out of place nor a worn patch anywhere!

Just as eagerly, though far more carefully, she pulled the new tunic over her head, slunk her arms through the sleeves, settled the hem around her hips, and flicked the ends of her hair over the top of the collar. She stood as she had earlier in the day, her chin tucked in and her arms spread wide, and looked down at herself.

It was the perfect tunic.

"Damn you, Fenris," she whispered. It was without heat, without anger, instead full of frustration and confusion. Here was a man who had tormented her for years… suddenly being nice to her? Telling her he loved her? Buying her gifts? And she should believe him? Trust him? Return his love?

She stopped admiring herself to tuck her tunic into her waistband. "I need advice," she thought out loud, "Someone I trust. Anders… no, he hates Fenris; he'd be biased by default. Hawke…?" she shook her head at herself, knowing the idea was a bad one as soon as the name left her lips.

"I need a woman's advice," she continued, buckling her belt. "Isabela is knowledgable, but hardly trustworthy; I can't believe half the stories she tells. Merril…" she paused to snort, adjusting the tunic so she could bend and twist without pulling the fabric. "Aveline, I suppose, except that I can't be seen with the Captain of the City Guard right now, or she'll have to arrest me. Then there's… there's…"

She stopped, lifting wide eyes up in astonishment, to stare unseeingly at the hearth. "There's no one I can talk with. I'm on my own." She blinked and came back to herself, glancing around her room, hands on her hips.

"Well, shit."

She couldn't accept that there was no one, not a single person in all of Kirkwall, that she could talk with, that she could seek motherly advice from, that she…

The answer hit her with such clarity, she felt ashamed she hadn't thought of it first. Feeling better with her destination in mind, she almost smiled when she returned to Fenris.

He was still in his chambers, staring at the fire. He spun when she entered, his expression hopeful, his eyes lighting up when he saw she was wearing the tunic. He even smiled, a small thing, but it appeared to be genuine. "You look lovely."

"It's, er, a little big around the shoulders," she criticized, immediately regretting it when his smile faded. Kicking herself for having started it this time, she amended, "But considering I wasn't there for it to be tailored to, you did a pretty fair job guessing my size."

"I got the color right," he recognized the olive branch she has holding out, and accepted it, "It perfectly matches your eyes."

"I haven't seen," she admitted softly.

"Oh? Wait, just a moment, I think I have something here…" he began rummaging along a shelf, hurriedly, looking at the very thing he searched for at least three times before he finally saw it. He picked up the small mirror and walked towards her, holding it in his hands, angling it so she could see. He watched her face closely, waiting for that moment when she would see herself, see her face, see the green of the tunic accentuate the green in her eyes.

The moment occurred, flickering to life like a spark from a fire, and just as quickly passing away beneath her tears.

"You're right," she blinked and swiped at the offending moisture, "It does."

There was that silence again; though not as sharp this time, it was lingering and viscous and just plain awkward. Fenris set aside the mirror, forcing himself to look at her and accept the consequences, as he began, "About what I said…"

"Don't," she pressed her fingertips to his lips, and tried hard not to think of how or why she had gotten so close to him so quickly.

"I realize it will be hard for you to believe," he pressed the words out around her fingers, trying not to notice the salty taste of her tears still on her skin, "Perhaps even make you uncomfortable, but I mean every word of it." His dull green eyes held a flicker of life, of hope, as he once more declared, "I do love you."

"I know you want me to say something, but…" she dropped her hand, "I need some time, to think about it, alright?"

"Take all the time you need." The words were spoken as a vow, a promise, that he would wait until the end of eternity for her answer.

She cleared her throat, still feeling uneasy, still wondering how he would turn this against her, still expecting the worst from him. But he seemed so sincere, she wanted to believe him. Maker, but she needed that advice! "Um, right, then, I suppose we should get going."

"We?" his brow furrowed with confusion, "Where?"

"To Hawke's mansion," she reminded him. "You still want to talk with him about the raids on those caravans, don't you?"

"And you're still coming with?"

"I, er, yes, I am," she lifted her chin. "I want to visit with Leandra. It's been simply ages since I've seen her."

He didn't look like he believed her, but he didn't have a reason to deny her. Other than, "Anders is going to have my balls for this…"

* * *

"Fenris!" Hawke exclaimed, coming into the foyer. Sandal had raced ahead of everyone at the sound of the knock, eagerly opening the door wide for whomever, friend or foe, might be outside. Hawke had followed him, just in case, and was surprised to see the elf standing there. "And… Hrodwynn," he sounded less than pleased when her familiar deep red hair appeared from over Fenris' shoulder. He was already in trouble with Anders over Hrodwynn's trial yesterday; he couldn't imagine the tongue-lashing he'd get once Anders got back from the clinic to find her here rather than resting at home. "How wonderful. Do come in."

"Hello, Hawke," she was used to coldness from him and brushed it aside, seeing as how she wasn't there for him, anyway. Instead she turned towards the strange dwarf boy and smiled brightly, "Hey, Sandal, how have you been? Do you like living here with Hawke?"

"Enchantment?" he asked, hopefully.

"Not today, but thanks for the offer," she sighed before turning her attention back to Hawke. "Hope you don't mind my tagging along with Fenris. He said he had something to discuss with you, and I thought to myself, it's been a while since I've seen Leandra. I think I'll come with him, just to pay her a visit. She's at home, isn't she?"

"In the library," he thumbed numbly over his shoulder.

"Excellent. I'll just go and find her. If you'll excuse me," she smiled again before slipping around the stunned Hawke.

"Anders is going to have my balls for this," he mumbled. Fenris hummed an agreement.

Hrodwynn didn't hear them, wasn't even trying to listen. She was chewing her lip, nodding absently at Bodahn working at a desk, skirting the Mabari dozing before the hearth, all the while her thoughts turned jumbled and her courage faltered. After all, she had been a few steps away from marrying Carver at one point—at least as far as he was concerned—and now she was going to speak with his mother about another man. Oh, Maker, this brilliant idea was turning more tarnished by the moment!

"Hrodwynn!" Leandra exclaimed, coming out of the Library to spy her, sealing her fate before she could flee. Then a miracle happened—Leandra held her arms out, opened and welcoming, and smiled warmly at her. "My dear girl. It's been so long since I've seen you, you're all grown up! Come with me and we'll talk. I want to know what you've been up to. I've tried asking my son," she cast a long-suffering look over Hrodwynn's shoulder at Hawke's approximate location, "But he hardly ever speaks of you, so you must tell me everything."

Everything, Hrodwynn repeated to herself. The next moment, all thought fled as she practically raced into the older woman's arms. There was no more fear, no more anxiety, no more second-guessing… All was right in the world, or soon would be, thanks to this wonderful, kind, accepting, graceful woman.

"There, there," Leandra patted her back, sending a baffled expression towards her son, "Whatever's the matter?"

Hrodwynn answered, sort of, a moaning and weak whimper escaping with a choked sob.

"She's had a bad day or so," Hawke answered, vaguely.

"What do you mean?"

"Ah," he eloquently hedged, casting about for an answer that wouldn't get him into deeper trouble. Giving that up as a lost cause, he decided to try the truth, hoping Hrodwynn's tragic experience would distract his mother from scolding him. "Did you hear about the public flogging yesterday at the Orlesian Embassy?"

"Yes, some would-be lady thief was made into an example for… oh, no," she ended in a sympathetic moan as she remembered, belatedly, what was Hrodwynn's profession of choice. "Well, that explains why your friend, Anders, was so upset this morning. There, there, my dear, it's alright now. It's over. Garret," she lifted her chin to speak with her son, shifting Hrodwynn around to face the stairs though keeping one arm around her shoulders, "Be a dear, and send Sandal up with some tea for us. We'll be in my chambers. Come along, Hrodwynn, we'll leave the 'men' to discuss their 'important' matters, while you and I talk about what's truly important."

Hrodwynn didn't quite register the exchange, nor did she notice the stairs, not until she stubbed the toe of her boot and stumbled. Leandra's arm around her helped her keep her balance, however, and she automatically began climbing. Yet it wasn't until they were safely ensconced in Leandra's room, Hrodwynn warm and cozy on a chair before the fire, that the tears began to dry.

"I'm sorry, Leandra," she sniffed, staring at the flames, finding the flickering comforting on some level, "I didn't mean to make a mess of myself. I really don't know why I'm here, other than, well, I need to talk with someone."

"Ah, now I'm beginning to understand," the older woman nodded sagely. "This has nothing to do with, er, whatever happened yesterday. This is a matter of the heart."

Hrodwynn's jaw dropped, her green eyes glittering, as she lifted her face up. "How did you…?"

There was a knock at the door, and Leandra smiled and patted her hand before calling out, "Come in, Sandal. Thank you, dear boy. Put the tray right here on the table. That's it."

"Enchantment!" he proclaimed proudly, setting down between them the tray loaded with tea and cups and biscuits without spilling a drop or rattling a dish.

"Thank you, Sandal," Hrodwynn smiled for him.

He beamed for her.

After he left, Leandra opened the top of the tea pot and sniffed. "Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn't have had Sandal bring the tea. It seems he's made us his specialty."

"Let me guess," Hrodwynn pulled half a smirk, beginning to feel more like her old self, "Enchantment tea?"

"However did you know?" Leandra deadpanned.

"The metallic smell," she answered. "Sandal made us 'Enchantment soup' one evening, and the smell of a wet rune stone is fairly distinctive."

Both women laughed.

"Well, never mind the tea. Tell me what's troubling you so," Leandra passed over a biscuit.

"I, um, I'm kind of, well, embarrassed…" she shrugged, picking at the small cookie with her fingernails. "I mean, Carver and I, he was your son, but there's this other man who's…" she paused to shrug, "I don't know, I need to talk with someone, a mother type person, and you're the only one I know of, but when I think of Carver…"

"Don't think on it," Leandra settled her hand over Hrodwynn's, temporarily suspending the destruction of the biscuit. "Carver was a headstrong and enthusiastic young man, a problematic combination at the best of times—believe me. And yes he cared for you deeply, so of course he assumed you returned his affection with just as much zeal, and made elaborate plans for your future together. But he's gone, and that was so long ago, and you were so young back then, it's no wonder there's another man who's caught your eye. No need to feel embarrassed or ashamed. I'm sure Carver would want you to be happy, even if that meant finding yourself falling in love with someone else."

Hrodwynn nodded, trying to smile. "Thank you."

"So, who is it?" Leandra pressed, bending her head close, as if she was just another young woman sharing a confidence. "No, let me guess: that elf who came with you, Fenris, isn't it?"

Again her jaw dropped. "How…?"

"It was the way he looked at you, whenever Garret's back was turned," she answered matter-of-factly. "It's obvious that he has deep feelings for you, feelings he has trouble sharing, I'm guessing?"

"Not exactly," she evaded, thinking of his confession earlier that afternoon.

"Then, is it that you love him, or is it that you don't love him, or do you know?" Leandra picked up a second biscuit to hand over, as the first one was nothing more than crumbs on her lap.

"It's… complicated…" she agreed, accepting the fresh fodder.

"We have the time," Leandra offered, "And this is why you came here today, isn't it?"

Hrodwynn nodded. Again.

"Start at the beginning," Leandra suggested, leaning back and picking up a cup before remembering it was empty. She set it down and waited quietly for her guest.

The silence wasn't long. Hrodwynn seemed at last to be over her uncomfortableness and awkwardness. The tale spilled from her lips as the crumbs spilled from her fingertips. She shared everything, from the very first night she met Fenris, through the years of verbal abuse, and finally culminating at his proclamation of love. The afternoon wore on into evening while she spoke, the tea growing cold in the pot, the biscuits turning stale on the plate. Leandra never once interrupted, never once offered advice or tried to find the right words whenever they eluded Hrodwynn. She was quiet and willing to listen, and at the end of it all continued to remain just as non-helpful.

"So?"

"So… what?" Leandra countered, keeping her expression open and neutral.

"So," Hrodwynn swept her arms wide, "What do you think? What should I do? What's your advice?"

"I don't have any."

Hrodwynn felt her eyes beginning to water. "But…" she shook her head, trying not to start crying—again, "But I came here, because I need advice. I need someone to tell me what to do. Because I don't know what to do or how to feel or any of that. I need your help, Leandra, please. You've been through this before. You've been in love. You know how it feels. Is this love? Is he telling me the truth? Should I trust him? Or should I tell him to go to the Void? What should I do? Tell me, please."

Leandra sighed, weathering the storm of emotion and accusation without qualm. "I can't tell you that, Hrodwynn; no one can tell you what to do. But," she leaned over again, placing her hand on her shoulder, "I think you already know the answer. Don't you?"

Hrodwynn shook her head, tearing up again, more from fear this time than sadness or pain. "No, please, I… I can't… I can't trust myself…" She angrily swiped away the tears that dared to escape before she amended, "I mean, I can't trust HIM. He hurt me, purposefully, only to protect me?! Does that make any sense?"

Leandra leaned back and took a deep breath. Her eyes flickered towards the door behind Hrodwynn, but she made no move towards it. "People will do strange things to protect the ones they love. For instance, my son has been wasting hours every week, following me whenever I go to visit my brother, Gamlen, in Lowtown. He could have told me there had been a vague threat made against my life, and I would have made certain allowances, but he preferred to keep the worry and inconvenience for himself. However, now that I know there's the possibility of danger, I can leave earlier in the day and be home well before dark. Would that make you feel better, Garret?" she raised her voice at the end, intending it to carry through the door.

Hrodwynn spun in her chair, feeling guilty and embarrassed and slightly pissed off. She saw what Leandra had seen earlier, a pair of shadows moving across the crack underneath the door. The shadows made to move away, hesitated, and shifted closer towards the latch. The next moment, the door opened and Hawke was standing there, the faintest tint of pink beneath his beard.

She stared at him with eyes as hard as emeralds, wondering just how much of their conversation he had heard.

Hawke pointedly ignored her, his warm amber eyes only for his mother. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the threats, mother, but I didn't want to worry you."

"See what I mean?" she said to Hrodwynn. "He took all the worry, all the responsibility on his own shoulders, rather than allowing me to lighten the load."

"Mother…" he groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Never mind that now. Go and tell the cook there will be two more for dinner tonight. You and Fenris are staying, aren't you? Of course you are. I'm sure the cook won't mind, and if he does, too bad. We're still trying to find decent servants for this place, and with the company Garret keeps, if a cook can't handle a last minute change in the menu or in the number of guests, I'm afraid he simply won't do."

"Mother…" Hawke moaned again.

Leandra stood, ignoring him for the moment. She leaned over Hrodwynn and whispered, "Take a moment. Dry your eyes. Wash your face. Then we'll see you downstairs." She patted the young woman on the shoulder and glided towards the door. "Come, Garret, you have to speak with the cook, remember?"

"Mother," he tried for the third time, once the door was closed and they were essentially alone, "Listen, these threats against you, it's something I'm handling."

"By throwing Fenris and Hrodwynn together," she countered quietly, her voice carrying no further than his ears. He stopped suddenly on the stairs, his jaw almost dropping. "Oh, don't think I didn't see through this little ploy you and Varric hatched up. Though why Hrodwynn doesn't see through it is beyond me, but I suppose that's lucky for you. Fenris, too, I imagine, wouldn't be too happy to learn he's being manipulated."

"He's… they're… it's complicated."

"Complicated," she repeated, nodding, "What everyone says when they don't want to explain something." She reached back and took his arm, pulling him down the steps.

"They do love each other."

"I know," she agreed readily. "Hrodwynn knows it, too. She simply cannot admit it. But I think I've given her a push in the right direction."

"Maker's breath, was there anything you two didn't talk about?"

"That's what we women do: talk," she hummed. "Now, go speak with the cook, while I try to determine who'll sit where tonight. It's been a while since I've hosted a social gathering…"

* * *

Fenris kicked an unoffending pebble with his big toe, sending it skittering down the street ahead of them, trying to think of something neutral to say. "That was… an eventful evening."

Hrodwynn gave him half a smile, closer to a smirk, but the uplifted part of her lips was towards him. They walked together, shoulder to shoulder, looking for all intents and purposes like two friends taking an evening stroll. "I think the term you're looking for is 'unmitigated disaster'."

"If mages had the power to kill with a look, Anders would have succeeded tonight. Whatever possessed Leandra to place us opposite each other?"

Hrodwynn tossed her hair about, feeling the slight buzzing in her head from the wine, hoping the cool breeze would clear it away. "We were a small group tonight. I suppose it was either you sat across from Anders, or next to him. That would've been worse. Imagine if you had asked him to pass the salt, or to pour another glass of wine. It would have ended up all over your lap!" she giggled.

He chuckled a little, the sound carrying through the nighttime air. Perhaps it was the seven course meal, perhaps it was the company, perhaps it was the wine, but he felt… agreeable, even cheerful. "That would have been asking for trouble."

"Speaking of asking for trouble," she segued, "I can't believe Anders agreed to come with us to the mine later this week. He hates leaving Kirkwall. And it's dangerous—the more he's out moving around, the more likely he'll be spotted by those looking for him."

Fenris stared at his toes, but he offered an answer. "I think he's more concerned for your safety, than his own."

She blinked at him, confusedly. The wind gusted, blowing her hair across her eyes, and she shook her head again to dislodge the tresses.

"He didn't accept Hawke's invitation to come along, until after you insisted on joining us," he elaborated.

"He's just overprotective," she waved it aside. "Sure, I've had a few close calls these past couple of weeks. And Brekker's been involved each time. And he's involved with the mine. But, honestly, all we've got to do is catch his men in the act of attacking the caravans, with the Captain of the City Guard for a witness, and he's through. Arrested. Incarcerated. Finished. What can go wrong?"

He decided not to answer. "Are, er, are you sure you're alright with this?" he changed the subject. "Coming back with me tonight? You didn't have to; you could have stayed with Hawke and…"

"No, I couldn't," she cut him off, knowing he was referring to when Anders asked her to stay the night, giving some flimsy excuse of how late it was or some such. "Anders made that offer, not Hawke. And I saw Leandra's face when he made it. She wouldn't have turned me away, but with Bodahn and Sandal staying with them, they barely have room for the cook. If I'd've stayed, I would've ended up sharing the hearth rug with the dog."

"Mabari."

"Whatever."

"The cook quit."

She looked at him again, trying to shake the hair out of her face. "Damn. I liked that cold soup thing he made, with the tomatoes."

"Gazpacho," he agreed. Another gust hit them, from the side, and he watched her hand battle to keep her vision clear. "You need to cut your hair."

"So do you," she quipped, reaching out to shove a wayward strand of white from the corner of his eye.

He stopped walking and looked at her with astonishment. She was one of the few who knew how it pained him to be touched; and though her fingers didn't come in contact with any of his markings, she knew he was still adverse to casual physical contact. Yet the fact that she would do so, boldly and without fear—as if he was a normal person—caught him off guard. When she let her hand fall away, he found himself missing the feel of her warm skin against his.

"Listen, Fenris," she paused, puffed her cheeks, blew out an exasperated breath, and turned to look down the street. He watched the breeze lift her hair out of her face, sending the ends fluttering like the wings of a flock of birds. "Listen," she tried again, licking those deep red lips. "Fenris, this whole," she flapped one hand between them, "Thing, with us, these feelings, whatever they are, I…"

For a few seconds her lips kept moving, though no breath was there to give voice to her words. She made a face, a delightfully frustrated face, something akin to enduring irritation. A second more and a rather unladylike sound escaped her chest. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, having turned sideways to the breeze to face him, and tried again.

"Bugger it all, but this is hard. I want to, that's the trouble, but you've done a very good job of making it difficult. Every time I tell myself to say it, there's that nagging suspicion that this is going to end badly somehow. Like always. Oh, maybe it's the wine talking."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she had continued.

"Never mind, it's not the wine. I was feeling this way during dinner… no, that's not quite right, either. I guess I'd made my decision, long before the wine, long before I had a talk with Leandra, much good that did…"

Her voice dropped into a mutter, one that Fenris had to strain to hear. He leaned in a little closer, probably a little too close, but she had turned towards the breeze once more. This time she brought a hand to the side of her face to hold the bangs out of her eyes before she turned back. He was still close, and their cheeks bumped together, the corner of their lips barely brushing before they both pulled back.

He didn't dare move. He didn't dare breathe. She was so close, he could taste that beautiful wine on her breath. He could imagine her hair, caught up in the wind, tickling his cheek. He could feel the heat of her body, penetrating their clothing, warming him, filling him up from within.

Maker, but he wanted to return the favor.

"Fenris," she all but whispered, "Listen…"

"You've said that," he reminded her, sensing she was weakening, instinctively going in for the kill.

"Oh, have I? Right, well, then, um, what part haven't I said?"

"The part that comes after that." He shifted, leaning towards her again, holding her gaze trapped within his.

"You're doing it again," she felt like she was panting, that despite the wind she was standing inside an airless room.

"Doing what?"

"Making me feel," she swallowed. Her hand suddenly appeared, fingertips pressed lightly against his cuirass. She had no where near the strength to hold him back, but the mere presence was enough to stop him. "Damn you, Fenris. How do you do it? Why? I…"

"Whatever it is that I'm doing," he vowed, "I'll stop it. I don't want to hurt you—I won't hurt you, ever again."

"You're not… hurting… me," she shook her head, sending the short strands willy-nilly around her head, making his fingers itch to catch them up. "Not this time. But you are making me feel. And I don't know if I want to feel… this… whatever it is, but I do. I do feel… something… I just don't know what. But if you're serious, if you truly love me and want a relationship with me…"

She looked away again.

He waited. He meant what he said, his vow to give her all the time she needed as well as his vow not to hurt her, and pressuring her into this would be hurtful. So he waited, standing there in the middle of the deserted street, as the wind picked up with a howl.

The temperature dropped suddenly.

Hrodwynn shivered, the silk shirt doing nothing to hold in the heat of her body.

Fenris glanced up at a new sound coming towards them, reminding him of a carriage out of control racing down the street. "Rain."

She didn't answer verbally, but grabbed his hand and started racing down the street. She was pulling them into the rapidly approaching storm, but it was the most direct route to his mansion. The wind lashed their faces, tugged on her shirt and threw sand in his eyes. The rain started, heavy wet drops falling like miniature anvils to pound their flesh and clothing. The temperature continued to fall, and after the stress of the past week and the heat of the day and the walks to and from Hawke's home…

Hrodwynn was gasping for breath by the time they reached his mansion. She paused only long enough to push the door open, not waiting for him to do it, knowing it wasn't locked. Her hand still held his, and though their skin was wet and slightly slippery, she refused to let go, pulling him inside after her. She spun, intending to close the door behind them, but he had too much momentum to stop. His bare feet skidded on the tile floor, betraying him, threatening to pitch him headfirst into the corner of a wall. He clung to her for balance, spinning around to grasp her forearm, but she was too intent on closing the door and didn't have the chance to notice he was in trouble. Unable to brace herself, the door slipped from her grasp as she was pulled along after him. She twirled, his momentum transferred to her, and in one terrifying moment he feared she would be the one to hit the corner. He bent his elbow and yanked her towards him, changed her trajectory, melded their bodies and their velocity into one, and wrapped his arms protectively around her.

Their bodies landed in a tangled heap, limbs indistinguishable, clothing and armor soaked, breathless wheezing filling the foyer.

It was several moments, the rain pelting in past the open portal to drench their feet, before Fenris found his voice. "You were saying…?"

She blinked, brushed thick wet strands out of her eyes, and realized she was lying on top of him. "What? Oh! Um, listen, Fenris…"

"You've said that," he deadpanned, "Three times now."

She stared at him, her emerald eyes dark in the lightless interior, unreadable to be read by him. Then she laughed. It was an open laugh, and honest laugh, a warm laugh, an encouraging laugh. He joined her, only a soft chuckle that might have been lost within the storm if she hadn't been lying on his chest and feeling it move. "Alright. Here's the deal. You love me, at least you're saying you do, but I don't know how I feel. I'm going to need some time, to figure stuff out, but if you want this—if you truly want this, well, then…" she sighed and pushed herself up to her hands and knees, lifting her weight off of him. "Then we'll give it a go."

She held her hand.

He took it.

"Thank you."

She didn't know if he was grateful for the hand up, or for the chance to prove he loved her. Frankly, she didn't think it mattered.


	21. Bitter Sweetness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life sucks. Just saying. My posting pace is going to slow even further (if you haven't noticed), so I apologize now, but I promise I am not abandoning any of my fics!
> 
> Speaking of which, I should be working on Skyrim, but I felt inspired to work on this story instead. I hope you don't mind ;D
> 
> As ever and always, thank you all so much for each and every Kudo/Subscription/Comment. Hugs and kisses! *gushes*

Beautiful.

That was the only word to describe it. It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, showing a canopy that fell from pale cornflower at the apex, to a brilliant azure at the horizon. The trees were a vibrant green alive with all manner of birds and blossoms. Even the dirt road, normally a dusty and lifeless brown, seemed somehow animated and full of promise as it passed beneath their feet. And the sun was so bright and warm, it was rivaled only by the company he kept.

Fenris smiled to himself, a strange new feeling suffusing his chest every time he looked at the beautiful woman walking beside him. How it had happened—whatever the miracle or force of nature or random coincidence—remained a mystery to him. But he couldn't deny it had happened, nor did he wish to; Hrodwynn was beginning to show feelings towards him.

It started the other night, after supper at Hawke's mansion. She had helped him up from the floor, and her fingers had stayed in contact with his a little longer than necessary, while a blush tinted her cheeks. That blush returned often over the next couple of days, he could see it even now as they walked, talking about matters so small they were hardly worth mentioning. But that blush, that timid pink, like a cherry blossom, so delicate it shouldn't have been perceived, except her skin was normally so pale even that small amount of color stood out in vivid contrast—and he was the cause of it.

"Why are you staring at me?" she asked him, suddenly changing the subject. "Is there something in my teeth? In my hair? What?" Her fingers started for her head, intending to rake through and remove whatever imagined leaf or twig had lodged there. But he caught her hand in his, holding her fast, startling her enough that she stopped walking to look at him.

For a moment they stood there, staring at each other, both slightly confused—by his actions. He had made a bold move, taking hold of her, stopping their progress, causing her to face him. Yet she didn't resist him. She responded with openness, neither taking a step closer nor pulling away from him, simply standing there and waiting. It was obvious to him that the next move would be his to make, if he could again be so bold.

He swallowed nervously. He was not good with flirting; what he had done with Isabela was more direct, more physical and less emotional—and held far less pressure not to fuck up. This was new ground for him, but as in everything else he did, he made his best attempt at success. His other hand lifted up, slipping his fingers into the short silky strands of her hair, stroking from behind her ear to the back of her skull, cupping her head as if he would cradle it. "As a matter of fact, there is something in your hair."

She knew he meant his fingers, but the way he stroked her scalp, carefully keeping the sharp edges of his gauntlet away from her sensitive skin, sent shivers down her spine. Oh, Maker, this was enjoyable, she admitted to herself, thinking of all the times these past couple of days, when he'd find an excuse to draw near to her, speak to her, touch her… Feeling emboldened, and a little flirty, she licked her lips and tilted her head and spoke the words before she could lose her nerve.

"And, um, my teeth?"

Though it was an obvious ploy, it was made innocent by her lack of experience. But he'd be a fool to pass it up. And Fenris was anything but a fool. "Let me check."

There was a fluttering burst inside her chest, as if a hundred butterflies had taken flight all at once. She was afraid to open her mouth, for fear of belching those butterflies into his face, but he was slowly leaning in closer, his lips parted, as unrelenting as only Fenris could be. So she matched him, closing her eyes, opening her lips, tilting her head a little further so their noses wouldn't bump.

When their lips met… when she felt his skin against hers… when their bodies drew closer together almost of their own volition… when everything that should be so wrong, felt so right…

Hrodwynn was overwhelmed, so sure of what she was doing one moment, and so inundated with frustrated confusion the next. She could no longer deny it; Fenris loved her. That he had spent years hurting her in an attempt to protect her continued to make little to no sense. But she had to learn to put that behind them, because the fact remained: he did love her. It was obvious in everything he said or did, such as this kiss. His lips pressed against hers, mouths slightly parted, but he made no initial move to deepen their kiss. He merely held the two of them together, moving slightly, accepting he had been invited inside but continuing to hold himself aloft until he was sure—until he was absolutely positive—her invitation was without reservation.

She gave a little moan, muffled inside his mouth, and flicked her tongue out between her teeth.

Triumph surged within his chest, rushing through his limbs, building the anticipation, but he refused to allow it to control him. He wanted this to be all for Hrodwynn—at her pace, and only as far as she was comfortable. He gave her entrance first, his teeth lifting out of the way, his tongue drawing hers deeper into him. She pursued, chased him into his mouth, broke off to explore his teeth, reengaged to wrestle with his tongue. He thrust and feinted, warred and retreated, toying with her while his eyes watched the expressions sweep across her features. She was scared, eager, frustrated, determined, predatory, and more—oh, so much more.

And he had these reactions, these emotions, this woman, all to himself.

One of his hands was in her hair, holding her head fast. His other hand had remained entwined with hers, capturing her fingers, straightening their arms down at their sides, encouraging their bodies to remain close. His leg shifted, allowing him to lean over her, forcing her body to bend slightly backwards, as he took over the kiss. Now he delved into her soft velvet interior, now he mapped the terrain of her teeth, now he sparred with her tongue.

She whimpered, yet it wasn't out of fear or pain, but longing.

That was his cue. He leaned back upright, bringing her with, making sure she had her feet underneath before he broke off the kiss. She followed, not wanting it to end just yet, and he had to smile—briefly, because the next moment her eyes opened and he didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. He knew she wanted to kiss some more, which is why he ended it, to keep her wanting. It was a petty tactic, he could admit that to himself, but it was a sound tactic. He had been giving her these little tastes over the past few days, touches and kisses and private smiles, and she had started to respond, more frequently, with more interest. He was winning her love…!

"We should get going," he gently reminded her, brushing a lock of her hair behind one ear before pulling away, "Wouldn't want the others to catch up with us."

She licked her lips, lapping up some extra saliva with her tongue. "Right. We are supposed to be scouting the way to Dietrich Crossing, aren't we."

It wasn't a question, just a mildly disappointing statement. "That was the plan."

They started walking down the road again in silence. Fenris was comfortable with the peaceful quietness, as always, but Hrodwynn was feeling talkative. She lasted all of twenty paces before asking, "How much further do you think it is to the Crossing?"

He took a moment to look around them at the countryside, taking note of what landmarks were visible. "Five, perhaps six miles. We should leave the road soon, start scouting the hills for any sign of Brekker's ambush party. Just around the next bend will do, I think," he gestured at the boulder-strewn bend in the road.

"If it even is Brekker doing the ambushing." Her voice sounded wistful, as if she was afraid that, despite all the evidence, it would turn out to be someone else and they would be no closer to getting rid of Brekker. That would mean she'd have to stay with Fenris, which she didn't mind, she only minded being forced to do it. Oh, Maker, this was getting too complicated, she groused to herself, please please please let it be Brekker so this whole mess could be put behind them and they could do what they wanted without any pressure or excuses just honesty…

"It's a fair assumption," he broke over her rambling thoughts, rescuing her from her self-made, imagined torment, "Dietrich Crossing was marked on the map I saw in Brekker's office, and it is along the route the caravan will take today. At any rate, we should find out what Brekker's interest is in that particular location."

"I know, it's just…" her voice trailed away, unable to find the right words to describe the feeling she was having, something akin to longing and regret, both at the same time. She sighed and did her best to ignore the uneasy feeling. "Do you want to split up?"

"After all the trouble I've been through to convince you of my feelings?" he sounded slightly miffed, looking at her askance with his ebony brows curved. "Even if we catch Brekker himself leading his men at Dietrich Crossing, and there's no more threat against your life, I'll still want to spend time with you."

She incredulously stared at him as they neared the boulders around the bend in the road, and noticed the corner of his mouth twitch. In an instant she knew he was teasing her, a side of him he rarely showed; to the best of her knowledge, she was the only one who'd seen this part of him. She rolled her eyes and smiled a little self-consciously, that delicate blush hovering over her cheeks, her heart feeling warmed and touched by his attention. As they entered the corner, she bumped his shoulder playfully, mindful of the spikes in his armor, and retorted, "You know what I meant. You take the north side of the road, I'll take…"

"Stop right there!"

Both of them stopped, not so much because they were ordered to, but because they were taken by surprise. Fenris looked up at the top of one of the boulders, at the man who had shouted at them, and hissed, "Hunters!"

Hrodwynn didn't ask the obvious question, what type of hunters; the strange cut of their clothing and thick accent told her they were from Tevinter. Spinning around so she and Fenris were back to back, she could see something he could not—they were surrounded. More hunters came out from behind the rocks, armed with everything from bows to swords to staffs, and began to press in close to cut the two off from any escape.

"You are in possession of stolen property!" the man on the boulder continued to shout.

Fenris ignored him, barely turning his head or moving his lips as he quietly instructed Hrodwynn, "Get out of here, back to Hawke. I'll hold them off for as long as I can." He reached up to grasp the handle of his sword.

Her hand stopped his, her gentle touch stronger than the steel of his greatsword, her soft whisper a forceful command. "Too late for that; we're surrounded. Just… follow my lead."

He let the hilt slip through his fingers, dropping his arm slowly, mindful of any sudden movements thanks to a pair of archers, one on either side of the road. "What are you going to do?"

"Stall. Hawke and the others can't be that far behind us." She turned back to face the man who had been doing the speaking, walking around Fenris to stand in front of him and assume a superior position. "Good day, good Ser. To what property are you referring? You'll have to forgive the question; you see, I am a thief by profession, quite a well-known thief, if you'll forgive my modesty—oh! Within the right circles, of course. No thief is good if they're known too well by the wrong sort." She gave a little laugh, flashing him a spunky little smile and batting her bright emerald eyes. "Allow me to introduce myself: Hrodwynn of Kirkwall," she flourished an overly grandiose bow.

"I don't care about…"

She straightened up quickly, trying to look surprised. "Oh, take my word for it. I am a fairly good thief. I'm the only person in Kirkwall who can crack a Siggerdson. And I've been thieving for over ten years. So you see, it's quite reasonable that I would have no idea what it is you think I've stolen from you. You know," she tapped her chin thoughtfully, her other hand cupping her elbow, "It would be of great help, if you could at least narrow it down a bit for me. Was it something I took off your person, or from your home?"

The Tevinter hopped down from the boulder, looking confused. "I'm talking about the slave…"

She broke over his words, pretending she hadn't heard him. "I would guess it had to be from your home, only because I mostly do lock picking. I prefer not to pick pockets. Don't get me wrong, it's not the risk involved; I love the rush of adrenaline as you cut a man's purse right off his belt, that feeling of anxiety, wondering when he'll notice the lack of weight, daring yourself to walk beside him for a time. But there's too little reward. Generally people don't carry as much in their purse as they keep locked up in their homes. So chances are, I stole something out of your home, though I have to say quite honestly that I've never been to Tevinter."

"Do not sass me!"

"Ser!" she actually sounded offended, her hand over her heart, "I assure you, I am being quite sincere…"

"I don't care what you are or… where you've been," he stalked closer, a finger pointing accusingly over her shoulder at Fenris. "I want the slave traveling with you. He belongs to a Tevinter Magister by the name of Danarius. I have been hired to return him to his rightful owner."

"Ah, well," she hedged, glancing over her shoulder and praying Fenris would continue to keep his mouth shut, "That's going to be problematic. You see, Fenris here isn't mine to hand over to you."

That brought the Tevinter up short. He was still slightly off-balance by Hrodwynn's irrelevant elaboration of her thieving reputation. "What? No, doesn't matter. You are going to hand over the slave…"

Fenris could no longer hold back, feeling the bitter sting of repeatedly being called a slave, recalling to mind the humiliation of being seen—and treated—as someone else's property, as something less than a person, like a shoe or a fork or a footstool. He crouched, his lyrium markings flaring into life, and shouted, "I am not a slave!"

Well, that did it, she thought to herself, knowing there would be no more opportunities to stall for time. The next moment happened so quickly her movements could barely be seen. She grabbed the Tevinter's wrist with both hands, his finger still pointing at Fenris. Her fists twisted in opposite directions, rubbing the tender skin raw, making him give a startled cry. She used his distraction to gain leverage and bring his wrist around behind his back, pulling it up high to where he was forced to stand on his tiptoes to ease the strain on his shoulder. Satisfied that he was secure, one of her hands let go to slip to the small of her back. Bringing out a dagger, its blade reflected the brilliant sunlight as she pressed it against the soft skin around his throat.

After the initial burst of movement, everyone grew exceptionally still. Even Fenris who, a moment before had been crouched and prepared to leap into a fight, now kept himself immobile. The archers shifted their aim slightly, trying for a clear shot, but Hrodwynn's thin frame was too close to the hunter's broad shoulders. And her dagger too close to his carotid artery.

She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering to either side of the road, making sure everyone was holding their positions, everyone's attention was on her, everyone knew she held their leader one heartbeat away from death. "Let me be quite clear," she said, her mouth right next to his ear, speaking slowly and succinctly so there could be no misunderstanding. "I meant it when I said that Fenris was not mine to hand over to you—because he is his own man, not a slave. Besides," she raised her voice so the others could hear, "If you abducted Fenris, it would be considered kidnapping. And our friends wouldn't like that."

"What friends?" the Tevinter tried to force bravado into his voice, but it was difficult when her hand twitched. He could feel the edge of the knife scraping against his skin, abrading it, taking off more than the whiskers he had missed while shaving that morning.

"Take a look for yourself," she shifted them around so he could see—the hunters were now the ones in the trap. "Meet Varric, and his one-of-a-kind crossbow, Bianca."

"Hello," the dwarf said, his voice pleasant, his crossbow aimed at the nearest archer. He stood on a small rise, giving him a clear view of the entire group despite his stature.

"And there's Aveline, Captain of the City Guard."

Aveline was a couple of paces from Varric, halfway between him and the road. She didn't answer, other than to draw her sword and hold her shield at the ready.

"I could continue the introductions, but the one you really need to worry about is right there," she had turned them halfway around to face the road leading back to Kirkwall, Fenris moving to guard her back. "Tall man, dark hair, long staff with a mace on one end. See him? That's Hawke. He's the one you really don't want to piss off. The last man who did… well, I think there's still a few junks of his brain matter stuck on the spikes of that mace."

"You have one second to stand down," Hawke obligingly threatened. For emphasis, he swung his staff out from behind his back and struck the ground with the blunt end, sending sparks of magic shooting into the air.

One of the archers started, not having expected Hawke to be a mage—not with that formidable looking staff—and his arrow slipped from his bow.

Hrodwynn thought she felt the passage of the arrow, she knew she had heard the twang, but she didn't think she felt any impact. She swallowed, lifting the hunter's wrist higher onto his back, feeling him struggle to free himself without dislocating his shoulder or slicing his neck open. Chaos broke out around them, mages and warriors and archers all attacking at once. She could hardly follow it all, but managed somehow by the grace of the Maker to get both herself and her prisoner out of the fray. She stood on the side of the road, with her back to a boulder, her front covered by the hunter, her eyes wide as they took in the battle.

There were bursts of magic, ringing of struck steel, thumping of crossbow bolts, all playing out in front of them, but Hrodwynn kept her back firmly secured against the boulder. She didn't care quite so much about the lead hunter, using his ample form as a shield, but she was fairly sure that he would survive. Mostly out of faith; Fenris would want answers from him.

The fight seemed to last a long time, and yet take no time at all. The last man went down beneath Fenris' gauntleted fist. Then he turned towards them, and she felt the urge to swallow nervously. His eyes were dead—not as if a life had been taken, more like they had never been alive in the first place, like a statue or a painting—while he stared at the man in her arms. He walked forward, and an acrid scent suddenly filled Hrodwynn's nostrils. The Tevinter had pissed himself.

The hunter started babbling—in Tevene—but Fenris would have none of it. He grabbed him by the collar of his robes and yanked him from Hrodwynn's grasp, throwing him face first to the ground. The elf followed, landing on him hard, knocking the air from his lungs and temporarily ceasing the babble. "Speak Common!" he ordered, his gauntlet now in the man's hair, his knee almost breaking his spine, as he lifted his head and stretched his throat tight.

"Don't… don't kill me… please… I beg you… don't…!"

Fenris knocked his face against the ground, busting his nose. When he lifted his head up again, a fountain of blood could be seen pouring out with each heartbeat.

"Where is Danarius?"

"He's… he's not… I don't… he never…"

Fenris once more hit the ground with his head. "Tell me!"

"Fenris," Hrodwynn said gently, softly, coming up carefully on his side, one hand held forward placatingly.

He glanced at her for only a moment before he snarled, "Stay out of this!"

She didn't back down. He seemed oblivious to the arrow slicing through his arm, other than the appendage hung awkwardly at his side. Yet he was more than capable of handling the hunter with only one arm, so she wasn't sure he had noticed his injury—just like that first night they met, when he hadn't noticed a festering wound in his back. She kept her position, neither backing away nor inching forward, but remaining by his side. Should his injury overwhelm him, should shock set in and cause him to faint, she didn't want the Tevinter to get away.

"Last chance," he leaned in close, his voice oozing like snake venom in the hunter's ear, "Where is Danarius?"

"In-in-in-in-in Tevinter… I swear it!"

Fenris seemed stumped by his answer, leaning back and easing his hold by a minuscule amount. The hunter took this as a good sign, that he was answering correctly, and continued.

"He… he didn't come himself to catch you… he sent his apprentice… she's the one who… who hired us…"

"…Hadriana…"

Hrodwynn felt a cold chill drip down her spine, despite the heat of the day. Fenris' voice was so angry, so hateful, so overflowing with levels of pain and torment and angst. She couldn't imagine what this Hadriana had done to deserve such a reaction from Fenris, and she had the distinct feeling she didn't want to know. His hand, still fisting the hunter's hair, began to shake, and she couldn't tell if it was from rage or fatigue.

"Where is she!"

The hunter couldn't answer right away, his face slammed yet again into the dirt and rocks of the road. He threw his arms out to the sides, not to gain leverage, but to show surrender. "Wait! Wait! Let me answer! Just don't kill me!"

"Where!" Fenris repeated his demand, bending the man's neck painfully once more.

It hurt, his voice choked by the awkward angle, but he managed to get out, "The Holding Caves… they are old slave pens… north of Kirkwall…"

"I know the place," Fenris' voice remained cold and low, like the growl of a wolf about to rip his prey's throat. Looking at how he was holding the hunter, he might very well be preparing to do such a thing—if his other arm hadn't been injured. Hrodwynn thought he may have finally noticed he was wounded, as he looked slightly baffled for a moment, or irritated, or frustrated, when he swung his shoulder but his arm refused to cooperate. Whatever he felt, it made him hesitate.

Hesitation that once more gave the hunter false hope. "Then… then you'll let me live?"

The plea snapped him out it. Fenris leaned in close once more, moving past the mental and physical obstacles that had caused the slight delay, "Why? So you can run off and warn her I am coming?"

The markings on his arm flared even in the bright sunlight, his hand phasing into the hunter's skull. The next moment, his head burst like a puss-filled abscess.

Someone wretched. Hrodwynn wanted to as well, having gotten a front row seat to the show, but she swallowed down the bile. "Fenris," she said quietly, trying once more to gain his attention now that the hunter was dead and the fighting was over. "Fenris, your arm."

He looked at her, finally, his eyes dead and cold like the grave. She refused to look away, her lively emerald orbs overflowing with enough vitality for both of them. She took a deep breath, trying to ease the racing of her heart, and said again, "You've been hurt, Fenris. Let me take a look at your arm." She reached one hand towards his injured appendage, her fingers shaking only slightly, before they lightly brushed against his skin.

Something came back to life inside him at her touch. Something warm and tender and fragile. Something only she could reach. The next moment it was squashed beneath a tidal wave of rage and vexation and futility. "I was a fool!" he shouted, pulling back from her. "I was a fool to think I was free! They'll NEVER let me be!"

"Fenris," Hawke began, and Hrodwynn tried to wave him off, but it was too late. The elf turned his ire on Hawke, since the true target of his wrath was out of range.

"Hadriana is here!" he shouted, gesturing with his good arm. "Hadriana, Danarius' most trusted apprentice, and my personal demon of torment. You don't know what she…" He pressed his lips into a thin line, keeping whatever he had been about to say a mystery to them all. "Never mind. She's here. Now. That's all that matters. And I am going to kill her. I will rob Danarius of his prize pupil! I will hurt him where it hurts the most!"

"Fenris," Hawke stood his ground, refusing to back down from the unbridled hatred, "We're busy right now. Let's finish our business with Brekker first, then we'll deal with this… Hadriana."

"No!" Fenris stalked right up into his face, spittle from his lips flying to hit Hawke's cheek as he spoke. "We go there. Now. We kill Hadriana. Today. We rid the world of her! And we send her head back to Danarius in a box!"

"Hey, Broody," Varric tried, using his most reasonable tone, "Listen, even if we wanted, we can't go right this minute to the Holding Caves. Some of us have been hurt, in case you didn't notice."

Fenris rounded on him as soon as he started talking. In frustration he grabbed the shaft of the arrow in his arm and ripped it out. "There! Now we can go!"

"What about Button?"

That stopped him short. Hrodwynn, too. She had been trying to get close to Fenris again, using his feelings towards her against him, hoping he wouldn't lash out at the one person he professed to love. But Varric's words slammed into them both with the force of a gale.

She was hurt?

"The back of your shoulder, Wynnie," Anders' gentle voice explained for her benefit. "The arrow, it grazed you before it hit Fenris."

She turned her head to blink at him. Then she turned her head further to try to see over her shoulder. She could just make out the edge of a rip in her tunic, puckering upwards and outwards over the wound she didn't feel. "Damn," she felt tears springing to her eyes, "I love this shirt."

Fenris loved the tunic as well; it was the emerald green he had bought for her just a few days ago. Guilt overwhelmed him again. Hadriana was here—because of him. She had hired hunters—to capture him. The archer had shot that arrow at him—and nearly killed Hrodwynn in the process.

He should leave. Leave her. Leave Kirkwall. Leave the Free Marches and return to Tevinter and kill Danarius himself—or this would never be over! Danarius would never let him go, and the people he cared for—the woman he loved!—would keep getting in the way. Keep getting hurt. Until one of them, or all of them, ended up dead. Because of him.

"Hey, Broody, it's alright, see?" Varric shifted into his field of view. "Blondie's already healed her. Now it's your turn." Varric wasn't sure who looked more uncomfortable at the prospect: Anders being asked to heal Fenris, or Fenris having to allow Anders to heal him.

"Please, Fenris," Hrodwynn was at his side again, touching his good arm, turning his attention towards her and away from Anders. Perhaps it would be palatable, to both of them, if neither one caught the other looking. But the elf wasn't fooled, at least. He gasped when he felt the cool healing power of magic, pervading his arm, brushing against the lyrium brands and setting them aflame. The others saw the sneer and misinterpreted it, knowing only of his hatred for mages and magic.

Hrodwynn saw the creases grow in the corners of his eyes, and knew the magic was somehow affecting the lyrium in his body, causing him pain.

She also knew he would not want pity, not from anyone, especially not from her. No matter how badly her arms ached to hold him, to comfort him, to soothe him, she merely gave him a nod of understanding.

"We, ah, should get going," Aveline offered. "There's still a few miles to go before we get to Dietrich Crossing."

"No."

"Fenris…" Hawke started, but the elf would not let it go.

"We have to go to the Holding Caves. We have to get to Hadriana, before she can get away. Now!"

"Listen to reason," Hawke stepped forward again. "We're a lot closer to the Crossing than we are the Caves. Let's finish this first, then we'll go to the Caves. I promise."

"And in the meantime?" Fenris sneered. "What if Hadriana gets away?"

"Why would she leave?" Varric countered. "She sent these hunters here to ambush you, right? Who knows how long that might've taken? She'll probably give it at least a couple of days before she starts to wonder. Then she'll have to send a search party out to look for these guys, giving us another day or two…"

"You don't know Hadriana," Fenris countered, "Not as I do! She won't rely solely on these hunters. Besides, she knows me. She knows that if I catch the merest hint of her scent, I will come for her. As soon as these hunters are overdue, she'll leave and head back to Tevinter, just to save her own neck!"

"Fenris," Hrodwynn finally got her chance to try reasoning with the bloodlust-infused elf. He rounded on her, his face in a feral sneer, which softened when he saw the look on her face. She was a little scared, true, and deeply worried, obviously, but there must have been something else there, something deeper or stronger or perhaps mysterious—because he didn't attack. "We won't let Hadriana get away. Hawke's given you his word. You can trust him; you know you can." Boldly she took another step towards him, still scared, still in awe of his rage, still determined to get through to him. She touched him once more, her hands on his shoulders, and stepped almost intimately into his personal space, as if expecting some sort of embrace or tender endearment. Leaning in close, she added in a softer tone, for his ears only, "You can trust me, too."

His hands came up, taking hold of her upper arms a little too tightly—not out of any intention to harm her, but due to the forcefulness of his emotions. He held her in place a moment, the longing and need and pain in his features overwhelming, but then he gently pushed her away. "Fine. We'll deal with Brekker first. Then Hadriana. But if she gets away," he let go of Hrodwynn and moved closer to Hawke, "If Hadriana slips through my fingers, I'll go after her myself. Alone if I have to!"

The implied threat didn't need to be spelled out: if Hawke took too long, if Hadriana for whatever reason decided to flee, Fenris would leave Kirkwall to hunt her down and kill her. Without Hawke. Without the others.

Without Hrodwynn.

Hawke nodded, accepting the terms. "Time's wasting."

* * *

Maker, this was a mess.

Hrodwynn had been hard pressed to keep up with the fleeing elf, and despite all her abilities to slip through crowds, despite all her knowledge of shortcuts, despite all her best efforts…

Fenris got away from her.

She leaned her backside against a building, hands on knees, and panted, taking a moment to think back over all that had happened that day. After the ambush with the hunters, they had continued to Dietrich Crossing, but were too late to rescue the caravan. They did catch Brekker's men there, and though they made quick work of them, Brekker himself was not present.

Bastard.

Next they had gone to the Holding Caves, as promised. At least that turned out partially for the best; Hadriana had been there, and Fenris had killed her. But that was where things finally ended up in the privy. Fenris had given his word—his WORD—to Hadriana that he wouldn't kill her if she told him about his sister, but after she told him what little she knew, he reached into her chest and tore her heart out, holding it's pulsing mess before her eyes as the light faded from them.

Hrodwynn wished desperately she could un-see what she had seen, but that wasn't possible.

Fenris had left immediately after that, no word, no explanation, just a stoic statement that he needed to be alone.

Bloody git.

It wasn't that she was stalking him, she told herself. Nor that she was in love with him and wanted to console him after a deeply and personally painful experience, not that he would accept such a thing. Nope, she only wanted to make sure he didn't do anything stupid while he was in such a distracted state. She feared… what she wasn't sure, but she feared.

The sun had set long since, the night in full swing. Most honest people were indoors where it was lighted, warm, and most of all protected—Hrodwynn was not one of those honest people. But neither did she fear the night. She knew the streets of Kirkwall: Hightown, Lowtown, and Darktown. She knew the gangs that roamed them: Coterie and cutpurses and cutthroats. She knew the dangers and the pitfalls and the shortcuts and the places where she could gain the advantage in a fight—or hole up if necessary.

And she also knew the sounds of a woman in trouble.

The cries were coming from a small side street that led away from the main thoroughfares and ended in a disused courtyard. She knew of the place, and avoided it like the Blight because she knew there was only one way in or out—and no place to hide if you happened to find yourself trapped inside. Trapped, like the woman who's cries were increasing in volume. Cursing to herself, she gave up her plan to track down Fenris, and jogged across the thoroughfare towards the head of the side street.

The woman was beginning to sound panicky, confused, her pleading voice echoing down the lane. There was something familiar about those cries, but it didn't sound like any woman she knew. Too young for Leandra, too high-pitched for Aveline, too confused for Isabela, and yet not Merril either. Briefly she wondered if the woman sounded familiar because the emotions she conveyed were familiar, but Hrodwynn couldn't remember a time she had been pleading so desperately, all her spunk and bravado dried up, all her options and opportunities closed off.

Well, except for the time a dragon was about to roast her and Fenris alive at the bottom of the Bone Pit Mine.

Or the time Jaxon had her neck in a noose and clippers around her finger.

Or the time Carver lay dying from the Blight, and she had been forced to give him an overdose.

Or just a few days ago, when she found herself hanging from her wrists and a lash cracking against her back…

Alright, so there might be some sort of sympathetic telepathy being felt. Either that, or…

Hrodwynn came around the last bend in the street and wanted to curse again. There was an elven girl being taunted by four men, her skin nearly as pale as her hair. The men were all dressed darkly, their intentions obvious to Hrodwynn even if the girl hadn't figured them out. She should turn around and leave the poor child to her fate. She should do so before she was discovered, before her fate joined that of the girl. Yet she couldn't make her feet move.

She recognized the girl. It was the young elf they had found in the Holding Caves, whose father had been sacrificed to Hadriana's blood magic. The same girl Hawke had sent to his mansion, with the intention of hiring her as a servant. Looked like she hadn't make it there yet. And she might not, unless Hrodwynn could find a way to get them both out of that alley. Fighting would be out of the question; not only were they more heavily armed than she was, but she was still tired after everything that had happened that day. With no other option available, she threw her shoulders back and put on her best smile.

"I thought you were taking me to my new master's estate."

"We are, honey, it's just through here. Oh, wait, now I remember. We took a wrong turn. Oh, well, why don't we rest for a moment? Come here and we'll sit down next to each other, real cozy-like."

"Orana," Hrodwynn called out, putting as much authority in her voice as possible. She boldly marched past one of the men to take the elf's arm. "Where have you been? Hawke's been looking all over Kirkwall for you." She turned and started for the mouth of the cul-de-sac, propelling Orana before her, continuing to speak in part to the four men, in part to Orana. "Thank you, good sers, for seeing to Orana's safety, but we really must be going—run—Ser Hawke doesn't like to be kept waiting—I said run—and he's been very anxious—get going—ever since we got back to the city and no sign of his new servant—get the bloody shite out of here!"

"Are you telling me to run?" Orana finally asked.

"After them!" one of the men called out.

"Yes, damn it, now run!" Hrodwynn gave up trying to push the other woman ahead of her, and opted for pulling her behind.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?!" another of the men shouted. Hrodwynn didn't hesitate, her movements fluid. She twisted around while pulling the knife out of the small of her back, her arm whipping out and over the top of Orana's head, the blade flying from her fingers to bury itself in the neck of one of the would-be rapists. She finished her spin, having to let go of the elf but taking hold of her again with her other hand, just as they turned the corner and left the alley.

The men were strong, determined, and pissed off over losing one of their own, but no one knew the streets of Kirkwall like Hrodwynn. She wove and ducked around pillars and past market stalls, jumped on top of a couple of crates to climb a fence, veered around another corner, yanked Orana with her through a small door, slammed it shut, locked it tight, and clamped her hand down over Orana's mouth before she could ask any silly questions.

The two women stood face to face, panting through their nostrils, ears straining to penetrate the wooden barrier. Heavy footsteps pounded past, masculine voices calling to each other, and finally silence. Still Hrodwynn did not remove her hand, instincts advising her to be cautious. Orana didn't argue, didn't protest the almost bruising force against her lips or the partial suffocation of fingers across her nostrils. Her eyes were wide in the darkness, her fear evident, her fatalistic acceptance of her situation giving Hrodwynn pause. She leaned in close and tried to ease the girl's mind, whispering, "I'm waiting to see if they double back. Just stay quiet a little longer."

Still Orana didn't react, far too accepting of her fate.

Hrodwynn had to remind herself; up until a few hours ago, Orana had been a slave. She didn't know freedom, a sense of self, a right to one's own person. All she knew, was basically to do as she was told, to accept what was done to her or those around her. So of course she didn't question Hrodwynn's strange actions or her assumed authority over her person. Yet there was hope; earlier she had questioned why her mistress would kill her Papa. So, maybe, Orana could learn freedom. Fenris had.

Thinking of that arse did nothing for her mood. She couldn't help but wonder where he was or what he was doing… Well, she knew what he was doing; he was brooding. But he shouldn't have run off like that. He should have stayed. He should have explained things to them. He should have defended himself—she would never repeat what Anders had said of him for breaking his word. He should have told them… told them…

Looking into Orana's eyes, Hrodwynn began to change her mind. Hadriana had been Danarius' prize apprentice, according to Fenris, so Fenris must have known her, he must have interacted with her at least some of the time. And he spoke her name with such hatred, such unbridled loathing and disgust. He had torn her heart out with such unholy satisfaction. He had felt no remorse over breaking his word, as if it had been a foregone conclusion.

Hadriana, a woman who had hunted and chased an escaped slave across a continent. A woman who, on one hand liked the soup prepared by one of her slaves, and on the other hand cooly sacrificed the very same slave's life to fuel her blood magic. What other atrocities had she committed? The answer was there, right before Hrodwynn: in Orana's eyes, in her posture, in her attitude, in every fiber of her being and every quirk of her personality.

Someone outside tried the handle of the door, giving it a few quick rattles and a half-hearted tug. Orana trembled—with fear or anxiety or a mere chill Hrodwynn couldn't determine. But she did know the men were finally leaving, looking elsewhere for the two women, or perhaps going back to their fallen comrade—but she doubted they cared that much for him. No doubt they were more upset over the lost entertainment.

"I think we're safe now," she breathed for the girl's benefit, "But we should probably stay here for an hour or so, just to make sure."

"Where… is here?" Orana asked, timidly, not certain if she should question Hrodwynn's authority.

She smiled encouragingly at the girl's bravado, not that much could be seen in the darkness, and answered, "An abandoned store. Used to sell spices, back before the Blight. But the owner went bankrupt, and no one's bought the place yet, so we won't be discovered before morning. Then it'll be safer to make our way to Hawke's mansion; less gangs patrolling the streets." She walked over to where a patch of moonlight was falling through a hole in the roof. "Let's sit down over here, where we can see each other, and talk for a bit, just to pass the time." She righted a stool and dusted off the seat, before finding an old crate to use for herself.

Orana did as she was bid, sitting on the proffered stool obediently and without question. Hrodwynn sighed, thinking it could take years for Orana to come to understand what personal freedom meant. But for tonight, she was going to selfishly take advantage of Orana's state.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Nothing in particular," Hrodwynn shrugged, trying to sound guileless. "Why don't you tell me about yourself, about working for Hadriana…?"

* * *

It was late afternoon before Hrodwynn finally made it home. She gave a private little giggle over that—thinking of Fenris' mansion as home. Wearily she shook off the bemused and befuddled thought as she pushed open the door and slipped into the dimly lit interior. "Maker, but I'm knackered!" she grunted as she closed the door behind her.

And looked up into the face of Fenris. He had removed his armor and gauntlets and belt and sword, but he did not look more comfortable. He was standing just beyond the foyer, his expression so dark it was a perfect contrast to his shock of white hair. She didn't feel any foreboding, however; it wasn't so much a look of angry brooding as it was, well, in a word: regret. Good, she thought to herself, he should feel regret. Not for what he did to Hadriana—after what Orana had told her, the bitch more than had it coming—but for leaving her like he did. Yet she didn't start any sort of fight with him, instead smiling and starting forward. "Hello, Fenris."

"Hrodwynn, I…" he reached out as she walked past, but his hand wouldn't touch her. She hesitated, giving him time to finish, willing him to speak, to let her into his private life, to do anything that would confirm that he truly loved her because… because…

Because she needed him to love her—she needed to know he still loved her—because she might… just… perhaps… feel something… When it became apparent that he could not or would not speak, she made herself perk up and say, "I'm famished. Got anything to eat?"

"Upstairs," he nodded, eagerly seizing the safe topic of conversation with fervor, "There's a roasted pheasant in my room, with some boiled potatoes."

"Sounds delightful," she sighed, starting forward again.

He fell into step beside her. "Hrodwynn, I…" He looked so eager, so pained, so ashamed, yet all he could utter was, "I'm sorry."

It cost him; she could see how much those two words hurt him, cut him to the quick and left him bleeding out across the floor. Her heart softened, her hands ached to reach out to him, to hold him, to comfort him—but he would never accept such treatment from her or anyone. Instead she asked, "About what?"

HIs eyes studied the steps as they climbed, "What I did to Hadriana… I broke my word… I know you think the worst of me…"

"Not for that," she brushed it aside as she pushed open the door to his room. She took a moment to inhale the delectable smells coming from the hearth where the food was keeping warm. She looked up at Fenris and saw how his brows bent with confusion, no doubt unsure as to why she wasn't pissed off at him—or perhaps wondering what she was pissed off about, if not that. "I talked with Orana last night," she explained, even as she grabbed a drumstick and ripped it off. "I ran across her in a blind alley. She had some difficulty finding Hawke's mansion, got herself caught up with a rape gang, but I managed to get her," she gave an appreciate snort, "Well, actually, get us both away from them. While holed up and waiting for daylight, we sat and talked for a bit. About Hadriana." She took a bite of the delicious meat; even slightly dried out it was more than satisfactory.

"I… don't understand… you should be mad… Hawke was… and the others…"

"The others don't matter," she swallowed the food, poking at him with the cleaned bone, "But Hawke does. After I finally got Orana there safely, Hawke told me you talked with him, explained things to him. That was good thinking. If you can get Hawke to trust you again, after what happened, the others will follow his lead. Oh, Maker, but I didn't realize how starving I was until I started eating! Don't you want any?" She used her only knife—the other still buried in a body somewhere in Hightown—to slice off a chunk of breast meat. She held it out for him, but he declined with a shake of his head. She shrugged, took a healthy bite out of the meat, and chewed contentedly. "Hmm, I don't think I've eaten since before the ambush. No, wait, I did have a bite at Hawke's place, after I got Orana there in one piece. Even managed an hour or two of sleep, before we all headed down to Darktown to confront Brekker. Turns out, he had some sort of weird personal grudge against Hawke; nothing at all related to the Coterie. All this time, it was just some petty little dispute. Bloody git." She chomped on the last bite for a moment, "Jaxon wasn't there, unfortunately. But Brekker and the rest of his men are dead. Tough battle. You should have been there." Her eyes flashed as hard as emeralds.

He nodded.

"Still, that mess is all behind us. No more Brekker. No more Coterie troubles. Just the normal shit that seems to follow Hawke around wherever he goes." She tore off the other leg, her hunger eased, and nibbled at the flesh. She made her posture easy, relaxed, opened, and prayed he would take the invitation.

He did. "But… what about you? You saw me… rip someone's heart out… after I promised…"

Hrodwynn made a rude noise, tossing the half-eaten drumstick into the fire. "Damn it, Fenris, didn't you hear what I said? I talked with Orana. About Hadriana. She didn't know anything about Hadriana and you, but she told me plenty of the things Hadriana used to do to others, the atrocities, and not just to her own slaves. And not just to slaves. The woman was a bitch. She deserved to be put down, like a mad dog. In fact, I wish I'd known then what I know now; I would have held her down for you."

He stared at her, incredulously, unable to allow himself to hope. "You… you're not mad that I… that I gave Hadriana my word… and broke it…?"

"No, I'm mad, but not about that," she stood up to confront him, nose to nose. "I'm mad because you left. You left me, after all your talk about wanting to be with me, share your life with me, face the future with me. After all your professions of love, you turned your back on me and left!"

"I… I needed some time… to think… I… I didn't want to hurt you…"

"Over and over and over again with that!" she shoved at his chest, making him stagger back beneath the brunt of her assault. "I'm sick to death of it!" She shoved him again. "Every time things get tough," and again, "Or dangerous," and again, "Or something from your past resurfaces," and again, "You use that sorry old excuse!" and one last time. "Well, what about me? What about my feelings? What if, maybe, I don't want to see YOU hurt?"

He blinked at her.

"What if…" the words held in her throat a moment, almost too emotional to speak, "What if it hurts me, just as much as an arrow through the heart, every time you push me away?"

His mouth opened, but he had forgotten to take a breath, to give his words voice.

"I want to trust you. I…" as she continued to confess, she could feel her anger turning to tears, stinging her eyes, causing them to glisten in the muted daylight. "I might—might!—want to love you. But how can I? How can I if you're not here?" She stepped up to him again, and he flinched, throwing his hands up, half-expecting another shove.

"When will you get it through that thick skull of yours, that you're not alone in this. That you have friends. That there are people who care about you. That I…" she paused to swallow, "That I care about you."

His hands fell, slowly, to her shoulders, his expression so eager—so hungry—it hurt them both. She moved closer, her hands on his chest once more, but tenderly this time, barely making contact with his tunic, the fingertips of one hand hovering over his heavy-pounding heart.

"Stop shoving me away. I'm here, Fenris. And I'll be here. For you. Whenever you need me." There were depths of meaning in her words that reached far beneath the surface.

"I need you," he admitted, his voice so low and gravely it sounded as thunder along the distant horizon.

"I'm here." Her bright green eyes flickered between his dull green, as if to share a spark of color with them.

"No, Hrodwynn, I mean…" he leaned in closer, his eyes hungrily devouring all she would give him, "I. Need. You."

"I understand," she answered simply, plainly, and with far more calm than her racing heart should have allowed. "I'm here," her hand moved to cup his cheek. "I need you, too. Here. And now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this is not a cliffhanger. *evil snigger* But I promise, the next chapter will be posted in a day or two *wink, wink*


	22. Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, meant to have this out a few days ago, but RL happened. Again. Hope it is worth the wait :'D

They stood toe-to-toe, his hands on her shoulders, her hands on his cheek and his heart. Fenris stared into the eyes before him, the eyes of the woman he loved, the woman he needed. There was no guile there, no deceit, only honesty and openness. Yet he couldn't believe her. After all, he hadn't been exactly clear on what he had meant, when he said that he needed her.

"You don't mean…?"

"I do."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

Why not, he repeated to himself, as his mind sluggishly struggled to find a way out of this, unwilling or unable to accept her offer. "You're a virgin."

It was the flimsiest excuse she'd ever heard, and she rolled it aside with a roll of her eyes. "That's no reason not to have sex. I mean, if everyone thought that way, there'd never be any more babies, would there? And that would be the end of the human race—or any race, for that matter."

Was she serious or joking, he wondered to himself.

"Besides, it has to happen sooner or later, right?"

Not necessarily, he countered quietly in his head, still unable to voice his objection. Wait, why in the bloody Fade was he objecting?!

"Unless the problem isn't with me, but you," she archly challenged. "If you don't know what to do or how to handle this…"

Fasta vass, but he knew exactly what to do. Yet could he? Could he take this, this most precious gift of experience, from her? For her?

"It's simple," her hand left his cheek to take hold of one of his hands, "You take the sword," she pressed their hands up against his groin, "And slip it into the sheath," she pressed them up against her groin.

"No!" he yanked his hand away. The hurt in her eyes cut him to the bone, but he would only hurt her more if they continued down this path. "A moment ago, you were angry with me."

"I was then," she allowed, "And maybe I still am; anger has kind of been a hobby of ours these past few years. But truthfully, ever since I was on my way home this afternoon, I've been thinking of you. Of us. Of this. I've felt something between us for a few days now. You've felt it, too, right?"

He nodded, too dumb to speak, wondering if he could say what he should say. If he could do what he should do. Or if he would give in…

She moved even closer into his personal space. "Then," she nipped lightly at his lips, "If you want it," her hands moved to his hips, "And I want it," she pulled their bodies together, "What's stopping us?"

He could feel the heat of her body, had felt it when she pressed their hands down there, humid and sweltering like a sauna, like the jungles of Seheron. And just as enigmatic and unexplored. Maker, but she gave every sign of wanting this—of wanting him. And yet, he had to try, one last time, to make sure she wouldn't hate him for this afterwards. "It'll hurt…"

"I've heard the old wives' tales," she brushed this latest objection aside. "If there's pain or blood or whatever, then I'll deal with it. But I still want this." She held their faces so close together, he could feel the featherlight brush of her lips against his as she spoke, "I want you."

Fasta vass, was his last coherent objection.

One can dangle a juicy steak in front of a starving man for only so long before he devours it. Fenris fell on Hrodwynn like that starving man, his hunger for her overwhelming, the need to fill her—to fill himself with her—stronger than the tides. Now she staggered backwards beneath the force of his will, a gentle whimper slipping out with her breath as the backs of her knees hit the low couch. They moved together as one, slowly through a half-controlled free-fall, the leather of the couch creaking a welcome to their entwining bodies.

Her hands roamed over his flesh, her fingers tracing the contours of his arms, the swells and dips of muscles and tendons. Fire roared through his blood, heating him from within, searing his body and soul. Yet the pain of being touched was nothing like the pain he'd been enduring—the pain of denial, the pain of loneliness, the pain of his self-made prison. He savored the sting as he would savor the sauce, pressing hard against her, encouraging her exploration. Her fingers came around and up, squished between their torsos, as she fumbled at the fastenings to his tunic.

He lifted himself off of her to allow her easier access. With adequate space, her fingers were less clumsy, showing how truly dexterous she could be, the toggles popping out of their loops quickly and efficiently. He held himself there, hovering over her, bending his neck to reach her lips, arms flexed to hold his weight. At last the garment fell open, parting like a drape, enfolding her supine form. Her hands and arms slipped inside, her fingers greedily stroking his skin, oblivious to the lyrium marks or the sensations they caused.

Sweat broke out all over him, the strain of holding himself back, of keeping himself from crushing her with his passion, almost too much to bear. His arms began to shake, to tremble like an earthquake, threatening to topple his body onto hers like a building onto the earth. If she saw the signs, she didn't heed the warning, her hands moving further, spreading out beneath his tunic to furrow along his ribs, to stroke down his spine, to dip beneath the waistband of his leggings, to tug suggestively at the skintight leather.

"Venhedis," he gasped against her lips, her touch going too far, too fast. It wouldn't be long, another heartbeat or two, before he found himself ready to step across the threshold and rut into her like some mindless animal. Yet he couldn't do that—he wouldn't—not to Hrodwynn, not this first time…

That thought was barely enough to sober him, to pull him back from the edge of insanity, to stave off the hungry wolf within him. This was her first time. He shouldn't feel intimidated; it wasn't as if she had any other lovers to compare him against. But he wanted her to enjoy this, to look back on today without regrets, perhaps with fondness, even many years from now. With that daunting challenge looming over his neck like the headsman's axe, he found the strength to break off their kiss, to tilt his hips out of her grasp, to pull away to a safe distance.

Safety was a relative term. She tried to leverage herself up onto her elbows to follow him, her Agreggio Pavali lips pouting with confusion, her dark auburn brows bending with consternation. He placed a fingertip on those beautiful lips to keep her from speaking. She kissed it, warm and wet and oh so willing. He dropped his face down to hers, pressing their foreheads together and feeling another slight tingle from the lyrium, but gave in and kissed her back around his finger.

"Just a moment…" he tried to buy himself some time while he thought of a way to move them to the bed where she would be more comfortable. He glanced that way, judging the distance, thinking he could pick her up and carry her. His hand left her lips to slip beneath her, the other braced against the back of the couch, before he looked back towards her. She was also moving, however, thinking he was embracing her, wanting to return his gesture, pulling herself up by her hands gripping his shoulders.

"Wait…!" The unexpected weight threw him off balance. The bed fell from view as the room tipped, the couch rising above him, Hrodwynn never leaving the foreground. A curse 'oofed' out of him as he landed on the floor, her body landing on him a half-second after. He had no breath, but a grimace cracked the granite of his features.

"Fenris?" she whispered, a hand to either side of his face.

He blinked his eyes open to see her concerned face looming over him. "Oops."

She stared at him a moment before the giggle bubbled up inside her. "Oops," she agreed.

"Perhaps we should move somewhere safer for this type of activity?" he suggested, his hands on her hips adversely keeping her in place.

She glanced around them, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. They were on a clear patch of floor, to one side the couch, to the other the hearth and their half-finished lunch. "I like it here."

He hummed an agreeable sound, his hands stroking up her sides and making her squirm just a little. "The bed is softer."

She clamped her elbows to her ribs, trying to keep him from tickling her. "And all the way over there."

Undeterred, he started tugging her tunic out of her leggings. "It's larger than the couch; less likely that we'd fall off. Again."

She gave a slow gasp as his hands touched her skin, his fingers so warm, the callouses rough and just this side of scratching. "We won't fall at all, if we stay here."

He stroked her front, coming up beneath her breasts, thumbs to the inside to push upwards. She shuddered as he took her in his hands, her nipples hardening between his digits, completely at his mercy without any underclothes to protect her delicate skin. "Sounds reasonable," he agreed, barely able to keep his own focus. "But let me get a few things, first."

His hands fell away, leaving her feeling cold and exposed, though her tunic still draped around her. He sat up, shifting backwards and out from beneath her. Rebelliously she had the urge to lean forwards, to capture him, to pin him beneath her and… and… oh, she'd figure something out by then she was sure. But she let him go, trying to content herself with merely watching his long-limbed body moving lithe and fluid across the room. It wasn't satisfying at all.

He stopped beside his unmade bed and picked up a pillow. Half a smirk pulled at his mouth; the next moment, he turned towards her and tossed the feather-stuffed projectile at her face. She gave a cry of alarm, her arms crossing in front of her to protect her and knock away the pillow. A moment later, she picked it up and had to laugh at herself and her overreaction. She looked up just in time to see the second pillow headed her way; this one she managed to catch. With a pillow in each hand, she felt armed and ready to retaliate, but he didn't look like he wanted to continue the fight. Instead he gripped the thick duvet in one hand, bunched another pair of pillows in the other, and dragged them all back towards her.

She continued to watch him, fascinated and a little touched, as he made a soft nest for their first lovemaking. He spread out the comforter between the couch and the hearth, leaving it bunched a little so it would fit, and dropping the pillows haphazardly. She let go of her pillows, figuring they would find them and use them as they needed them. He knelt on the soft bedding, holding his hands towards her, inviting her and, waddling awkwardly on her knees, she came to him.

Without the full length of their legs, more importantly without the heels of her boots, Hrodwynn was a little disconcerted to discover he was slightly taller than her. She felt cheated somehow, or embarrassed, or just plain sore. But when he held her shoulders, when he gave her that starving look, when he leaned over to press his lips against hers…

…er, why was she mad?

Of their own volition, her hands came up, gripping the loose fabric at his shoulders, tugging it down and away. He let go of her first with one hand, then the other, to allow her to pull his tunic off. With his torso exposed, he had a fleeting feeling of anxiety, memories of Danarius still coming all to easily to mind—how he'd parade Fenris in front of others, showing him off like one would show a prize pedigree. Yet Hrodwynn didn't care about his lyrium markings; she didn't trace the lines or covet the time and effort and resources it had taken to produce such a specimen.

She coveted the man.

Her hands roved over his body, as light as a breath, overlooking the lyrium, concentrating instead on finding those little places that caused him such bliss. The palms of her hands over his nipples. The light scrape of fingernails down his spine. The eager press of her thumbs into the sides of his groin. When the backs of her knuckles brushed along that faint trail of ebony hair, rising up towards his navel, the other hand cupping his hip, he decided she'd had enough exploring. It was his turn.

He gave her shoulders a suggestive push, not enough to force her onto her back, but enough to make her let him go. She tilted her head, wondering what he wanted but not asking, enjoying the anticipation and excitement and mystery. He didn't leave her in doubt for long, far too eager to continue their lovemaking to allow the moment to linger. He gripped her tunic, the bright emerald green now ripped and stained with several fights, and lifted it up.

Hrodwynn's body was perfect beneath it. Not to say she didn't have a scar or two, he could see the small slit where Jaxon's knife had penetrated her ribs, and his fingers could feel the marks of the lash still crisscrossing her back. Yet he didn't judge beauty by unmarred skin alone, no matter how creamy pale. Her body was toned though not muscular, her arms lean and her stomach flat. Her breasts were full, heavy and soft and just large enough to fit his hands. He was using his mouth right then, however, bending over to suck at a nipple, feeling it harden as he lapped it beneath his tongue. She gave an excited little gasp, her fingers burrowing into his hair as if to keep him there.

But he wouldn't have it. After only a moment or two, he left the one to turn his attention to the other, his hands spread widely across her back, supporting her as he bent further, sucked harder, and eased her backwards to the floor. She settled on the blanket with a sigh, the sound muffled by the rustling fabric, her eyes shining brightly against the backdrop. His attention remained focused on her breasts, on torturing the tiny buds with pleasure, nibbling them lightly with his teeth. He pulled back at last, leaving one mound slick with saliva, and blew gently across her skin.

Hrodwynn hissed and bucked, unable to control herself, never having felt such a sensation before. Quickly his hand covered her breast, his fingers moving over the slippery skin, his callouses sending shivers down her spine. He gently scraped up one side and over the top, and she found herself arching her back, pushing herself further into his grasp.

Fenris wanted to laugh softly at her wanton display, wanted to revel in his power over her body and soul. It was a heady sensation, this ability to manipulate another person, to make them do as you will. Yet he wasn't being cruel or domineering; if anything, he was doing everything to please her, to appease her will, to fulfill her desires. It was a strange mixture of subservience and dominance, of pleasing and taking pleasure, of give and take.

It was making love.

His hand left her nipple to travel lower, tracing the curvature beneath her breast, rising and falling over each rib, dipping down towards her navel, slowing as he reached the waistband of her leggings. She immediately started wiggling her hips, as if she could shed her clothing like a snake sheds its skin. Again he felt pleased over his ability to give her so much pleasure, incite so much passion, inspire so much need. He could feel the heat and moisture through the fabric of her leggings, more than before, mounting ever higher. It wouldn't take much to make her ready, to give her that ultimate pleasure. Only then would he take that priceless gift she freely offered.

Deftly he found and undid the fastenings of her leggings, tugging them downwards, catching on her boots, fighting to pull fabric and leather off at the same time. She sat up, laughing softly, and began helping him. There was no inhibition, no hesitation, in regards to her nudity. There was only the desire, the need, that held itself suspended between them. Once her clothing was removed, she reached for his waist, her intent obvious. He obliged, shifting beneath her touch, allowing her to pull down the skintight, custom made leggings, allowing her to see—to know—how deeply he desired her.

Her quick eyes and quicker mind took in all of him at a glance, once more ignoring the lyrium in favor of the flesh. Instead she returned to holding his gaze as she leaned forward, one hand fisting the blanket, the other dropping down between his legs. He growled in warning as she kissed him, taking her wrist in a viselike grip, ceasing her teasing before she could get started. She pouted again, those wine-red lips full and desirable and so delicious.

He pecked them in consolation. "You're too eager. Give me a moment, before I make a mess of things."

She tilted her head, as if she didn't understand. The next moment her brows lifted, those lips forming a little "O," those jewel-like eyes flickering down to his swollen member. Amazingly he also felt no awkwardness over being laid bare beneath her scrutiny; he knew her, he trusted her, he loved her. He allowed her to be curious, to examine and trace and explore; he only wanted her to do so slowly and gently to keep himself from tipping over that precipice far too soon.

A fine film of sweat made his skin glisten. He reclined against a pillow, pulling her with him, stroking her spine, spreading her body over his. She molded herself to him, like putty in his hands, following his unspoken encouragement to do as she would with him. All the while he felt the tension building inside him, like the string of a bow, pulling tighter and tighter until it would either release or snap. His breath came out in pants as her hands cupped his hips. His teeth began to grind as her lips teased a nipple—perhaps he shouldn't have showed her how to do that. His eyes screwed shut when her legs fell to either side of his.

Venhedis, but this was difficult. He wanted this time to be perfect for her, to be exactly what she always wanted, without any uncomfortableness, but how much could one man take? As her legs spread, he could feel her heat, hitting him in waves, spilling down across his thighs, her moisture making her swollen lips far too tempting, too inviting, too necessary.

He had reached the end of his limits. He shifted, easily lifting her form though they were so close in size. She gave a protesting huff, probably because she wanted to torture him some more, but he would have none of it. This was her first. This was her turn. This was for her. He rolled her beneath his body, settling himself between her still open legs, and slid downwards. He heard her moan, a delicious sound, like the far away cry of a wolf for her mate. He answered, pressing his lips to the pulse on her neck, as if he would take her by the throat like his namesake. She gripped his hair again, holding him there, her body writhing against his.

He let go of her throat, not at all ashamed that he had left behind a mark, and slid even lower. Once again he reverently held her breasts, one in each hand, while his lips and teeth and tongue tormented her skin, tightening the little nubs until they were so hard they had to be painful. Her chest rose and fell before him with her panting breath, her passion—her lust—rising, building, growing. He gave one last nip—part playful, part predatory—before he moved even lower, tongue trailing below her cleavage, swirling twice around her navel, delving ever lower to that most intimate of places.

Despite all the stories Isabela liked to tell, Hrodwynn either hadn't paid attention or hadn't believed the lady pirate. She was completely unprepared for his onslaught, for his physical tongue-lashing. As he bent lower, as his mouth became buried in a triangular patch of dark red hair, she had gasped and bucked and nearly ripped his ears off. He would have laughed if his mouth hadn't been full, her response was so enthusiastic, so untouched, so pure, so reactive, so virginal.

Fasts vass, was he actually going to do this? Was he going to take her virginity? Was he going to be the first to impale her velvet softness with his hardened shaft? Was he going to be the first to feel her shudder around him, feel her body move mindlessly as she lost control, hear her cries of ecstasy? His tongue fought through the mass of curls and discovered that tiny bud hidden beneath its hood.

Hrodwynn gasped again, her legs flailing around his shoulders, seeking purchase, seeking leverage, though he couldn't tell if she was trying to push him away or hold him in place. Her fingers remained in his hair, however, tangling and snarling the unruly strands, and firmly holding him to her. He inhaled deeply, tasting her scent, the muskiness of sweat and womanhood, with a light touch of something floral that he couldn't place—probably her soap. He craned his neck to look up, to catch a glimpse of her face while his tongue continued to lap her.

Her eyes were slits, glazed and unseeing, lost within the moment, the sensations, the newness of it all, as if she were coming alive for the first time. He pulled one arm down there with him, knowing it wouldn't always be so wonderful, wanting to prepare her and yet wanting to keep it pleasurable for as long as possible. His fingertips stroked the outside of her lips, the flesh swollen and already slick with her moisture, in long and deliberate movements. She moaned again, her hips tilting and wiggling, instinctively trying to get him inside, to get him to fill her, to get him to fulfill her. He was too careful, however, too cautious, too experienced. His long fingers barely penetrated, only the outer layer, first one finger and then a second, letting her get used to the actual sensation of being spread open by another.

This all was so very different than any other partner he'd been with recently. Hawke had been male, of course, the feel of the ring of muscle puckering tightly around his fingers was nothing like he felt now. And Isabela, though female, had been far too experienced, her control over herself practiced and almost too easy. But this was honest. This was visceral. This was Hrodwynn, young and fresh and willing and new. And his.

Oh, Maker, he prayed, if only she would say the words, just once, just to assure him that this was right, that this was what she truly wanted…

"…Fen…?" she panted, unable to voice his full name, her body beginning to quiver. "Fe-fe-fe-en!"

Wolf, she called him, and a wolf he was, devouring her innocence as he would devour her flesh.

He redoubled his efforts, feeling her legs wrap around him tighter, feeling her fingers pulling at his hair. His tongue flickered faster, circling its prey, chasing the little nub down into its rabbit hole. She gasped his name again, breathy and louder at the same time, right before it happened. Her breath stopped in her chest, her face screwed up in an expression so painful it was bliss, or so blissful it was pained. Her hips arched upwards, pressing into him, merging them together, nearly shoving his fingers inside her. Then time seemed to hesitate, suspended as she was, hanging from his shoulders. And he waited, only a heartbeat, but it seemed an eternity.

Hrodwynn moaned, soft and bleating like a lamb, like the cry of an infant being born, a shudder tearing through her entire being, body and soul. Then her hips began rocking mindlessly into his face, her legs spasming, her hands fisting his hair. He rode her waves of pleasure, continuing his lingual ministrations, easing his pace to match her slowing convulsions. At long last she moaned another sigh, muscles turning to goo, fingers slipping away. One leg fell off his shoulder, and he caught it to lay it gently on the blanket. He gave one or two final licks, mostly to lap up the excess, before he moved away.

Dear Maker, but she was beautiful! She lay there, completely at ease, completely relaxed, her skin glowing in the light of the fire, sweaty and flushed and moist. He didn't touch her, didn't rouse her, but allowed her to feel, to revel in the euphoria, to keep her eyes closed and hold on to that climactic moment for as long as she wished. He watched as she took a deep breath, her breasts lifting temptingly, her lips parting invitingly, but he kept an iron will on his own person. Slowly at first, starting with a twitch and increasing to a flutter, her eyelashes parted and her lids lifted to reveal two very bright, very glazed emerald orbs.

"Fenris?"

"Avanna," he answered. He was lying next to her, propped up on an elbow so he could watch her reactions.

A cute little furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "…what?"

"Avanna," he repeated, "It means, 'Hello'."

She smiled, the confusing falling away, the blush deepening on her cheeks, and responded, "Avanna." A giggle escaped after the greeting, and she had to fight to keep it from continuing. "I, er, I mean, that was a, ah…"

"An orgasm, yes," he agreed.

She giggled again, her breasts bouncing. "I never, um, imagined, it would be, ah, so, ah," she giggled again, breathy and soft. Slightly in horror—slightly in surprise—over her lack of self control, she covered her offensive mouth with a hand. "Excuse me, I don't know why I'm acting so silly."

His long fingers snaked out to swipe a wisp of her hair away from the corner of one eye. "Because of how you feel. Don't be embarrassed. Enjoy it."

She dropped her hand. "You mean, you're not thinking that I'm laughing at you or something like that?"

He shook his head.

"What are you thinking?" The giggles were gone, but the smile remained, deep and powerful and true.

"Now, this is embarrassing," he admitted somewhat sheepishly, "But I'm thinking about how it was me that gave you such pleasure." In a flash his expression changed, turning feral and predatory.

She smirked, "Prideful, aren't you?"

"But deserving," he countered, his fingers straying downwards, dipping between her thighs, finding the moisture from before.

"Ah, yes," she moaned, closing her eyes. It lasted for only a moment, her gaze returning to his face. "But you didn't, um, you know."

He shook his head. "No, I didn't. This was all for you."

She tilted her head, batted her bright emerald eyes once, and asked, "So, it's your turn now, right?"

He hesitated, the doubt and fear and uncertainty and disbelief…

"Fen," she sighed, touching his cheek. "Fenris, I want this. All of it. All of you. Now is not the time to stop. Please."

He let go of his last reservation. He didn't speak, didn't know the words to say, but turned his head to press his lips into the palm of her hand. His own hand had remained lower, touching the sensitive skin, stroking to either side of that little nub, callouses drawing slowly across her still swollen flesh. Very quickly she responded, very quickly she grew excited once more.

"Fen…" her tone held warning, as if she was fearful he might make her come again before allowing himself the pleasure. To compound her threat, one of her hands reached down to the apex of his legs, to find his swollen flesh, to stroke the length of his shaft.

He hissed, not from pain but from pleasure, encouraging her actions. "Tighter," he whispered.

"I, er, wouldn't want to hurt you or anything," she said, a little apprehensively.

"You won't," he gave his head a quick shake, then lowered it to kiss her lips. "I'll let you know if you do, but you won't. I'm used to a certain level of pain."

"Doesn't it…" she stopped suddenly, biting her lip, but she had to ask, "Wouldn't that keep you from enjoying this? Pain, that is."

"Some pain, yes," he felt fresh sweat erupt from his pores, her hand so warm. "But some pain can feel like pleasure."

She stopped stroking him, her brow lifted with disbelief. "I don't see how…"

He didn't let her finish, not quite ready yet himself, not wanting her to stop or cease her movements. He bent over a breast and nipped his teeth lightly at the nipple. She gave a surprised gasp, and instantly the skin around it hardened. "That's how," he panted.

She was still a little doubtful, but as the evidence was obvious to her, both in her own reaction and his, she tightened her fist, making an even smaller tunnel for him to slide through. He thrust into her hand, short and jerky movements, while his fingers continued their dance across her skin. She wanted to stroke him herself, she wanted to slip her hand up and down his full length, but damn it his fingers were distracting her too much.

Fenris watched her closely, intent on seeing those little signs that said she was aroused, planning to take her close to her edge before he took her. He wanted her to get as much enjoyment as possible, fearing what was to come, fearing the inevitable, and praying she would remain responsive and open afterwards.

She gave a tiny moan, her body shuddering, her hand spasming for a moment, and he knew there could be no more stalling. He pulled himself out of her grasp, eliciting a tiny whimper of protest from her. The next moment he parted her thighs with his knee, and she realized what was about to happen. Her breathing increased, whether from anticipation or fear or passion he couldn't tell. But she didn't protest, she didn't pull away, she didn't push, she didn't show any sign that she had changed her mind. His second knee joined the first, her legs parting willingly. He settled himself on top of her, his shaft lined up with that tiny bud, while the fingers of one hand reached down between them and found her moistened lips.

Hrodwynn bucked as soon as he touched her, not fully understanding what she wanted, but knowing instinctively that he could provide it, that he could fulfill the dearth that ate at her soul. She needed to feel whole, complete, and he held what was missing from her being. His fingers spread the wetness to either side, preparing for an easier passage, endeavoring until the last moment to make this as pleasurable for her as possible. At last she'd had enough, however, her core stimulated by his rubbing cock, her body humming with lust, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Venhedis, he sighed to himself. The next moment he took his hand off her, lined himself up, and slowly and deliberately pushed himself into her.

She tensed a moment, arching her back, biting her lip, fingers gripping even harder. He didn't relent, not yet, not if she could handle this, not of she was still willing. He pushed in even further, feeling her muscles clench almost painfully around him. Then she shook her head, her face turning blotchy, her hands moving to shove at his chest.

"No."

"Do you want me to stop moving, or…?"

"Out," she panted, "Just pull out. Please. It's not… I don't… just… out!"

He was already moving, doing as commanded, shifting his whole body downwards before pushing up onto his hands and knees. His eyes never left her face, concern etched into his brow, as he tried to reason out what she was feeling and thinking. She continued to pant, not quite crying, but her hand covered her face, trying to hide her eyes just in case.

"Amatus?" he queried, worried and concerned. When she didn't answer right away, he took a moment to check, and there was perhaps a slight tint of pink, faint in the muted light, running the length of his cock.

"I'm alright," she said, her tone pouty and childish, and more than a little mad over her silly overreaction. "It just… was uncomfortable… just for a moment… it felt… not wrong, but not right… I can't explain it!"

"Then don't try," he said calmly, "There's no need."

She half moaned, half mumbled something incoherent beneath her breath—and beneath her hand. She thought she heard Fenris answer her with some sort of chuckle, but the next moment she felt his lips press against the hand covering her face. "I'll be right back," he assured her. She felt the heat from his body fade away, the duvet pull and tug, the faint vibrations of footsteps through the floorboards.

Curious, she lifted her hand to peek, but as suspected he was no longer by her side. She huffed a little, still pouting, and scolded herself for acting so silly. It wasn't as if it hurt, after all, not like other pain she'd felt. But it had been uncomfortable, and the further in he pushed the more uncomfortable it had become, and she'd panicked…

Hoping to distract herself from the embarrassing train of thought, she glanced around to see where he had gone. It took a moment, and in the end she'd had to duck to peek beneath the couch, but she finally found his feet across the room, standing somewhere near his dresser. He shifted them, lifting one up to balance on the ball of the foot before setting it back down. Then she heard the gentle drip of water, and the feet turned to come back to her.

Her expression was curious, and a little passive, as he came around the corner of the couch and back into her sight. He was holding a small towel, damp with fresh water, in one hand. Wordlessly he knelt beside her, taking his time, taking care, to tenderly wipe away any mess, mindful of any soreness or overstimulated areas. When he was finished he tossed the towel aside, out of sight, and smiled down at her. "How are you feeling?"

"More embarrassed than anything," she admitted. "I don't mean to act this way…"

"Sh," he stopped her babbling without a word. When he was sure she would be silent, he settled himself down next to her again, grabbing a pillow and bunching it up beneath his head. Then he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her towards him, draping her over his chest as he had done earlier. "You feel what you feel; there's nothing wrong with that," he explained, stroking the back of her arm.

"But I did the one thing I promised myself I wasn't going to do." Idly she traced her fingers across his skin, staying away from any markings, ignoring the fact that she lay on several of them already.

"Which was what, exactly?" he pressed. "Lose your virginity? Feel regret?"

"I don't regret it," she countered, a little spunkily.

"Good to hear," he sighed, his own fears fading. "So, what did you do that was so wrong? Feel a little pain? Bleed a little? There's nothing wrong with that; it's quite common, you know."

"I know, but I just…" she sighed, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words, the day not quite turning out as she had hoped, "I suppose I always thought those were just stories, meant to scare girls into keeping themselves virginal until their wedding night or something. So I wasn't expecting anything to happen. And I sort of…" she shrugged her shoulder beneath his hand, "…sort of got a little scared maybe, because something did happen, even though it wasn't very much, but then… maybe I panicked a little… I don't know!"

He kissed her dark red hair, nuzzling into the thick strands, inhaling the scent of her soap and her sweat. She didn't have to continue to talk about it, not if she didn't want to, and he tried to move them past it, finish the topic, before they lost this opportunity. "It's over now."

"I know," she sighed wistfully.

He thought he heard sorrow in her voice, loss, perhaps even the regret over losing her virginity that she had denied. His arm tightened around her shoulders, his hand gently squeezing, trying to give her reassurance.

"But not for good, right?" she asked, almost sounding eager.

The sudden reversal took him by surprise. He hummed, trying to sound neutral, not quite sure what she meant.

She pulled back, leveraging herself onto her elbow, so she could see his face and not the rib-like markings under his chin. "It's over, that part of it is, but the rest isn't, not for good. We're still going to, um, continue, aren't we?"

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand, growing in strength and speed. "If you like," she felt his chest vibrate with his words, a little sympathetic tremble echoing through her own chest.

"I like," she agreed, before realizing how childish it sounded. "I mean, I'd like that, very much. I want it, Fen, I want this, the whole experience. Please, don't deny me."

It took half a moment, half a scary moment during which she leaned over him, unable to read his expression. "I won't," he promised.

Relief swept through her; she hadn't fucked things up after all. "So, um, do we just pick up where we left off, or…"

He chuckled again, and she discovered she loved the sound. His hand reached up to touch her cheek, to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, and a second time when it wouldn't stay. "We'll have to recapture the mood, first."

"Oh, right, and how do we do that?" Her fingernail circled round one of his nipples, mindful of a curl of lyrium that came a little too close.

She watched an ebony brow lift onto his forehead. "Are you making fun?"

"Erm," she eloquently stalled for time while she examined her actions, her words, and decided he might have a point. She could feel the heat spreading lightly over her cheeks as she answered, "No, I didn't mean to." She leaned over him, the tip of her tongue flicking out to join her finger. "I guess I could do something like this."

She knew she was on the right track when she felt his cock twitch against her thigh. "That's… not bad," he agreed, his hands spreading out over her hips. The pressure of his fingers changed, and she followed his lead, allowing him to guide her up and across to straddle his lap.

"How's this?" she asked, leaning back, taking his hands in hers, entwining their fingers.

"Now you're showing off."

She laughed softly, twitching her hips, grinding herself lightly over his member.

"Of course, in this position, I have the advantage," he stated.

"Advantage?" she questioned, not wanting to be shown up.

"Yes," he moved their hands towards her breasts, brushing across the sensitive skin, inadvertently—or intentionally, it was hard to tell—making her touch herself. "I have free and clear access to your whole person, while I myself remain out of reach. Advantage, me."

She wasn't sure of his reasoning, thinking the person feeling the most pleasure should have the advantage, not the person giving the most pleasure. Yet she couldn't deny, he was able to move their hands into some interesting places, while most of him remained untouched. "Some advantage."

"You can't imagine," he agreed enigmatically.

She gave a strange noise, somewhere between a whimper and a grunt and a lustful moan, as one pair of their hands fell down to that patch of curly, dark red hair.

"You should see your face right now," he hummed, "Your expression… it's so beautiful."

She had no idea what he was saying, her focus gone before the touch of his hand, their hands, on that tiny bud that seemed to be directly linked to some secret inner part of her, perhaps her very soul. She trembled like a leaf in the wind, her chest hummed with distant thunder, her insides grew hot and moist and aching. That new feeling returned, that aching need, that dearth of soul. And she knew he could fill it, he had filled it, and this time he would complete it.

His cock was hardening by the moment, straightening itself only to find it was at the wrong angle. She could fix that, she could shift around and allow it to slip forwards, but where would be the fun in that? Instead she continued to swirl her hips over him, to let her moisture drip out and cover the light patch of soft ebony fur at the base. He tried to free his hands, to fix the awkward angle himself, but she held him fast.

"What is this?" he panted, sweat beading at his temples. "Are you some sort of desire demon sent here to torment me?"

"Not a demon, no," she tilted her head, continuing to slide and swirl, stimulating them both, "But I do like having you under my spell."

"In case you haven't noticed already," he was having trouble focusing, his breathing heavier, "I am completely at your whim. Everything I've done, has been at your pleasure."

She stopped short at that statement, amazed and a little in awe, because it was so true. He had made sure this actually was what she wanted before they even started. He had brought her to orgasm first. He had been as gentle and as caring as one could possibly be while entering her for the first time. And he had even cleaned up the small mess that had been made. "It has, hasn't it?" she agreed, but he wasn't paying attention to her.

"Venhedis…" he grimaced, his eyes closed, his teeth bared.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, suddenly thinking he might be in pain, the markings touched too hard or her hips pulling a sensitive patch of skin. She stopped, leaning forward, some of her weight on their hands, her face hovering over his.

"Amatus," he moaned, shaking his head and opening his eyes. "No, nothing's wrong, only hold still a moment or two."

She smirked, looking down on him, "No longer your advantage, is it? Not when I can do this…" She lifted herself off his lap, just far enough to allow his member to spring upwards. Then she settled behind it, pushing it down onto his lap, and stroked the length with her dampness.

"Fasta vass! Hold still, you minx!"

She laughed, unrepentantly, and kept moving.

Fenris let out a feral growl, teeth still barred. First time or no, he was going to have to teach her a lesson: don't tease an untamed animal. It was cheating, undoubtedly, but that had never stopped him before—he invoked the lyrium in his hands and phased out of her grip. She gave a small sound of consternation, her eyes flashing brightly in the muted light, hands falling to the floor on either side of him as she became forced to catch herself. In doing so, she tipped forwards, lifting her hips just enough for him to straighten up. Suddenly she stopped, keeping herself very still, kneeling over him in a very open and vulnerable position. Advantage, Fenris. Again.

She could feel his member down there, just the tip of it, thick and hot and right on the outer edges of her lips. Oh, Maker, but she wanted him inside her. Yet she didn't move, she couldn't, hesitating without knowing why. This was what she wanted, emotionally, mentally, physically. And she was sure he loved her; his actions this afternoon alone proved it. So why did she hesitate? Why did he?

"Amatus," he moaned, his deep green eyes sweeping over her face, the firelight flickering inside them, making them seem alive and warm and content.

She didn't know the word, but somehow she knew the meaning. Hearing that new yet familiar word, watching his lips move with such love and life, feeling the sweat and heat of his body beneath her, seeing his eyes so full of color and light…

Slowly she moved, holding his gaze, loving how his lip curled into a satisfied snarl, loving how keenly she felt him fill her, fulfill her, satisfy that dearth of soul, ease her ache. She felt opened up, like a rose blossom spreading its petals for the first time. She didn't stop, didn't pause, her movement leisurely but consistent, until she had his length enveloped within her body.

Hrodwynn was sitting up by this point, having to lean backwards to get the best angle, their hands once more entwined, helping her to keep her balance. She held them together, their bodies still, simply enjoying the moment of feeling each other—touching each other—as never before.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, perhaps a little apprehension remaining from earlier.

She nodded her head, her emerald eyes alight, her Agreggio Pavali lips parted with her breath. "Yes, Fen, everything is alright. Better than alright."

"Keep calling me wolf, and you'll see how long that lasts."

"Wolf?" she tilted her head, not understanding. "I've been calling you 'Fen;' I thought it would be short for Fenris…"

"Fen means wolf," he clarified, "Fenris is the diminutive."

"What? That's what your name means? Little wolf?" She flashed him that spunky smile, wiggling her hips ever so slightly. "There's nothing little about you."

He growled, like his namesake, though a little playfully. "Keep calling me Fen, and I'll have to start calling you…"

"Not Wynnie," she said with finality.

"Definitely," he agreed, giving a small thrust with his hips, bouncing her slightly, just to let her know he could, and to turn her focus away from anything unpleasant. "Hrod sounds too masculine, however."

She giggled, "Quite. How about… what is that word you've been using… Ama—teur?"

"Amatus," he repeated, his voice a low growl, his muscles shaking beneath her. She felt him, deep inside her, twitching, eager to move, eager to finish. "It means… you are loved… by me…"

A flush of heat swept through her entire being, from her toenails to the ends of her hair, at the tender endearment. "I like it. Amatus." She shifted again, sliding up and down a little, enjoying the touch of him inside her.

A change came over him, thrilling her and exciting her and scaring her all at the same time. She gasped as he sat up, his arms snaking around her torso, holding her fast. "Fen?" her voice wobbled slightly, with passion or fear she didn't bother to determine.

"Put your legs behind me," he commanded. And she obeyed without question.

She should have questioned. The position was to his advantage yet again, she quickly realized. Without her legs beneath her, she had no leverage to control their union, no ability to set their pace. And the angle allowed him even deeper access; she was sure she felt him hit the back wall, run out of room, something. Thankfully it appeared he had no more length to bury, their bodies pressed so tightly together that their sweat and heat mingled. Still she tried to shift back, give herself some space, her hands on his shoulders. His hands around her, however, kept her firmly in place, kept him firmly in place. And when he rocked his hips, pulling out and pushing in the merest amount…

Oh, Blessed Sweet Andraste, this was heavenly. She couldn't remember why she was pushing him away, instead her hands gripping him to hold him fast. Her neck felt weak and her head felt heavy, lolling back and exposing her throat. Like a wolf he pounced on the exposed flesh, his maw covering a throbbing artery, teeth grazing her skin. She moaned—somehow that tiny bud was being rubbed against by their tightly pressed bodies, and even with only minimal movement, she was growing close once more.

The moment came, the moment when everything stopped, when there was no sound, no sight, no heartbeat, no passage of time—that one, perfect, infinite moment—that prelude to euphoric bliss—that delicious anticipation… Then it struck, hitting her like a lightning spell, convulsing her body, taking away her control, her thought, her breath. She spasmed in his embrace, her body jerking, writhing, all but slipping from his grasp.

Dimly, on some sub level of her brain, she was aware of him, of his actions. He was all but growling, rocking even harder against her, almost desperate. As she came down from those heavenly heights, he shot upwards, his lips curled into a feral snarl, his eyes glazed and distant, his breath coming in soft pants punctuated by his thrusts. She allowed him to savor his own moment, mostly because she was within the afterglow of her own moment.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, only that time had once more resumed its unrelenting march towards the future. She felt the billowy softness of a pillow beneath her shoulders, the warm and smooth fabric of the comforter cradling her limbs. She heard the sizzle and pop of a log on the fire, the muted noise of traffic in the busy street below the windows. But the one thing she wanted most, the touch of the man who loved her, was absent.

"Fen?" she queried, even as she opened her eyes and leveraged herself onto her elbows. But he wasn't on the comforter beside her. For a moment she feared, her heart skipping a beat, wondering where he could have gotten to so quickly. Reaching out her hand, however, she felt the blankets were still warm from his body heat, so wherever he had gone it hadn't been that long ago. "Fen?" she called again, shifting around to her hands and knees, her vision exploring further into the murky room.

He wasn't that far away. A few feet beyond the corner of the couch he crouched down on one knee, a fist against the floorboards, his head bowed. He looked like he had tried to stand up, stand up and stagger away, only to have fallen to the floor.

"Fenris?" Her voice was softer than the muted daylight. Cautiously she approached him, one hand barely touching his shoulder. The flesh beneath her fingertips was heated. "Fenris?"

He turned his face to her, his eyes haunted, as if his vision was suffused with horrors stacked upon horrors. His muscles trembled at her touch, but he didn't pull away, only spoke a single word in a small, quiet voice, "…Leto…"

"What was that?" she asked, thinking he might have spoken something in Tevene.

He blinked, his eyes coming back into focus. He looked at her without recognition, however, his expression lost, in pain, confused. His lips fell apart but no words came out, only an anguished sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan of pain. He blinked again, squeezing his eyes as if trying to clear them, gulping down a lungful of air before he attempted speech.

"Let… go…"

So that was what he had said, she thought to herself. To her it had at first sounded as if he had spoken in Tevene, another word like avanna or amatus, and she was relieved to discover she had been mistaken. Yet the words were so choked, so desperate, so painful she instantly dropped her hand as if she'd been burned. "What is it?" she asked, growing even more concerned. "What's wrong? Tell me, please, let me help you."

"I…" he seemed to recognize her now, his face filling with longing and need. "I… can't…"

"You're scaring me," she whispered, no longer touching him, but remaining steadfastly by his side. "What happened? Please, Fenris, tell me, don't shut me out, not again, I'm here for you, remember?"

He continued to stare at her, panting through an open mouth, his eyes shifting back to those sights only he could see. "Remember… I… I remembered… I remembered it… flashes here and there… crashing into my head all at once and I couldn't stop it I couldn't understand it wouldn't stop!" His rant digressed into a growl of rage, his hand reaching out to grasp a nearby table by the base. His powerful legs bunched and stretched as he straightened up, pulling the table with him, lifting it off the floor. He slung the table across the room to land in a heap of firewood against the far wall.

It seemed all his rage had been spent in that single destructive act, but he was dealing with more than rage. He stood, shoulders heaving with his breath, fists clenched at his sides, toes gripping the ground.

"What are you saying?" Hrodwynn stood, slowly, warily, as if approaching a dangerous animal, a common state in dealing with Fenris. She walked around him towards his front, so she wouldn't approach him from his blind side, and asked, "What do you mean, 'remembered'?"

"I remembered," his voice was a soft moan, "My life from before."

"Your… your amnesia?" she struggled to suppress the stab of jealousy that tried to pry its way into her heart. "You've broken through it?"

"I did…"

She swallowed, trying to feel happy for him. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

He shook his head. He had been refusing to look at her, though at least he didn't turn away. "It's gone again. I can remember that I remembered that I do have a sister, but I can't remember anything about her now. If that even makes any sense…"

She felt guilty and ashamed for the relief that swept through her. It wasn't fair—they had this in common, this lack of memory, of a family, of a past. If he got his back, but she remained cut off and alone… No, that wasn't fair, either. Not when she saw how deeply it affected him. She pushed away the last pang of jealousy and screwed up her courage. "It does, Fenris, it makes sense. And it's a good thing."

He finally looked at her, disbelievingly, yet wanting to hope.

"Think about it this way," she dared herself to touch him, setting herself directly in front of him and placing her hands lightly on his shoulders, "Your memory came back. Even if it was just for a minute or two, it did come back to you. That means it's not gone, not for good. Your memories are still in there," she reached up and brushed a lock of unruly white hair back from his forehead, absently noting three white dots of lyrium she hadn't noticed before, "Somewhere inside your head, and if they came back once, they might come back again."

"How?" he pleaded for an answer, for help, unable to think clearly for himself. "How did this happen? Why today? I don't understand."

"I don't know," she answered. "Maybe it was because of Hadriana, something she said or just seeing her again triggered this episode. Or maybe it was this sister Hadriana mentioned, thinking about her helped you to remember her, even if it was just for a moment or two. I don't know," she wrapped her arms around him, and was grateful he didn't pull away. "But it did happen. And if it happened once, it can happen again. Whatever has been keeping your memories at bay as been weakened. It will break. Eventually. It must."

She could feel the war inside him, the struggle for independence battling against his need to be with someone—with her. In the end he gave in to his need and returned her embrace, clinging to her, crushing her into his soul. "I don't know what to do," he admitted, his chin resting on her shoulder.

She pressed the side of her face into his hair, "We'll start with this sister of yours. We know Hadriana wasn't lying, trying to save her own neck. Your sister does exist, because you remembered her. Maybe, if we find her, if you were reunited with her, it might trigger more memories. Where did Hadriana say she was living?"

"Qarinus," he answered, "Working as a servant for a Magister Ahriman."

Hrodwynn pulled back, just far enough to see his face and flash him her spunkiest smile, "Then that's where we'll start."

"We?" he repeated.

"The two of us," she affirmed. "We're together now, you and me, no more shutting me out, remember?"

"That," he sighed, his hands cupping her face, feeling emboldened and empowered by her presence, "That is the one thing I could never forget." His lips descended to claim hers.

Something burst inside her. The gentle explosion didn't hurt or sting, not like a broken blister or a festering wound. Rather it was like the way a rainbow shot across the sky after a storm, or the way a seedling shoved aside the earth to reach the sunlight. It was bright and warm and new and full of promise. And though unable to fit description and mysterious in intention, she instinctively knew…

…this was love.


	23. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally finished my Skyrim fic, so I have only my two DA stories to distract me. Yay! Also, IRL seems to have stabilized for now, so hopefully I should be posting chapters no more than a month apart. Hopefully. Still trying to get used to my new schedule and fit in time for writing…

Hrodwynn shoved her head through the neck of her tunic, a bright red that complimented her Agreggio Pavali lips. She was dressing a little hurriedly, not out of any urgency, but because Fenris was way ahead of her and already stalking down the stairs. He only had to pull on his leggings and drape his vest-like tunic over his shoulders; she had to race to her bedchamber to find a fresh tunic, not to mention finish putting on her other boot. And then there was her hair…

They had been in his bedchambers, spending the evening talking about what little they knew of his sister, and trying to organize a plan of how to search for her. Out of the blue, there had been the sound of the main door opening, and Hawke's sardonic voice announcing both his presence and his hope that he wasn't interrupting anything. The two of them had looked at each other, realized they were both still, er, under-clothed after their afternoon of lovemaking, and had begun to dress in a rush. And Fenris, of course, had been able to make himself presentable and started for the stairs long before she could find something suitable to wear.

She sighed, finger combing the short strands of her hair into what she blindly hoped was an acceptable style, and tried to tuck in her tunic as she started down the stairs to see what Hawke wanted.

"…came across it in Lowtown a while back and, well, I thought you might like it."

"That's, er, very thoughtful of you," Fenris answered Hawke as Hrodwynn reached the base of the stairs. She spied them at the far end of the hall, just in front of the foyer, Fenris and Hawke and…

Bloody shite, her steps nearly froze, her hand gripping the railing to anchor herself. Of course Anders was here, too; he never left Hawke's side nowadays. Yet she refused to let his presence intimidate her. After all, it wasn't as if one look at her and anyone would be able to tell she was no longer a virgin. Nor would it be any of their Maker-damned business. She lifted her chin and resumed her approach, trying to unobtrusively tuck the last bit of hanging fabric into the waist of her leggings. She even managed a smile as she came up to them and said, "'lo, Hawke. 'lo Anders. What brings you here?"

"Good evening, Hrodwynn," Hawke inclined his head towards her, but barely spared her a glance. "Hope you don't mind the interruption, but we were on our way to the Hanged Man, to divvy out everyone's shares from this latest job. Thought we'd stop here, first, and give you two your shares. And a little something extra." He kept his eyes on the elf, a slightly eager look on his face as he all but bounced on his toes, watching him turning a somewhat heavy and large, wrapped parcel over and over in his hands.

"I wasn't expecting any cut from that job," Fenris reminded him. "I wasn't with you when you killed Brekker."

"Oh, I'm not talking about just Darktown," Hawke waved aside the lessening of his role. "I've got loot from all the way back to that little ambush we suffered soon as we left Kirkwall. And don't look so upset; I'm not blaming you for that. If anything, it lined our pockets quite nicely."

"Then… I'm glad I could help…?" Fenris wasn't too sure how to respond, but it seemed the correct response.

"Here, this pouch is your share from the rest of the adventure," he handed over a leather purse, "Oh, and this is yours, Hrodwynn," he added as an afterthought, shoving her purse her way. His eyes remained on Fenris, however, as he finished, "The gift there is from… well, it's because… oh-just-open-it-already!"

Fenris was uncomfortable. Instinctively he knew something was off, something beyond his ability to deduce from the current facts in evidence. It might simply be because Hawke was so eager for him to open the gift, it might simply be because Hawke had given him a gift—but Anders' face was growing darker and colder by the moment. He decided the best thing to do was to simply open the gift and get the awkward situation done and over with as quickly as possible. He pulled at the knotted twine enough to loosen it, and tore open the paper wrapping.

"It's, er," he looked at the heavy block of leather and parchment, feeling his throat tighten up with bitter and shameful anger.

"A book, yes," Hawke finished for him. He saw Fenris' rather lackluster reaction and felt the need to explain himself. "It was written by Shartan, an elf who fought alongside Andraste. I thought, well, perhaps you might enjoy it, as the two of you have so much in common. Both former slaves, both from Tevinter…"

Fenris couldn't lift his eyes up from the bound volume; he didn't want Hawke to see the rage and hurt in the dead green depths. "If he was a slave," however, he couldn't keep the emotions out of his voice, "How could he have written this? Slaves aren't taught how to read or write!"

Hawke finally realized why his thoughtful gift wasn't getting the reception he had hoped. His amber eyes batted as he quickly searched for a way to alleviate the hostility. "Maker's breath! Of course! Your trouble with those papers inside the Siggerdson. I'm sorry, Fenris, I hadn't realized that's what you meant, that you couldn't read, and believe me I never wanted to offend you. And, well," he took half a step forward, softening his voice, trying to convey the intention of the gift, "I'll admit I'd never given it much thought, how Shartan wrote the book. But perhaps he had been taught for some reason. Perhaps he had been a scribe for his master. Or perhaps," he gently reached towards the tome, his eyebrows curving seductively, "Perhaps he learned to read, later in his life, after he became free. Perhaps you can, too. It's not nearly as hard as one might think. And… I could help… if you wanted." He placed his hand over Fenris's shaking one, covering the white knuckles, praying the elf wouldn't throw the tome across the room.

Or phase his hand through Hawke's chest and rip out his heart.

There was a dark silence for a full three count, and then…

"It would be useful," Hrodwynn's light voice was slightly strained. She also tried to ease the suddenly awkward situation. She knew Fenris' warning signals better than Hawke, and the reasons behind his reactions—she had her own bitterness when it came to condescending gits who looked down on you and pitied you because you couldn't read. As if it was a given that of course a person would want to read. As if there was something wrong with you if you couldn't read. As if everyone was supposed to have this magical 'opportunity' to learn, and if you missed yours, it was your own fault and you were tsk'd at and sighed over and… She swallowed a heavy lump past her choking throat and managed an almost normal tone, shrugging her shoulder nonchalantly as she walked around to Fenris' side and leaned her hip against a disused table. "Might even make a few things easier for us. We could write letters first, narrow the search, before we'd have to risk going to Tevinter ourselves."

"What's this?" Hawke's head snapped towards her, as did Fenris, but each for different reasons. "You two are planning to leave Kirkwall?"

She saw the darkening, life-draining storm cloud swell inside Fenris' eyes and knew, though she may have deflected his anger from Hawke, it was now aimed at her. "It was just an option," she shrugged again. "And I know, Fenris, it's personal; you don't want others to know. But maybe Hawke could help us. At least, teaching us how to read and write would be a help."

There was a lot to process in those few words.

"Personal?" Hawke repeated, still lost.

"Us?" Fenris repeated, equally lost.

She ignored Hawke. "In case it's slipped your notice," she finger combed a lock of hair that had been tickling her cheek, right in front of her ear, trying to get it to tuck neatly out of the way, "I can't read, either. And, as Hawke was so kind as to bring up, the fiasco with the Siggerdson has made me stop and think that… well… maybe learning my letters isn't such a bad idea." She refused to look at Anders, who had been gently pressuring her to learn for the past several years. If she had looked at him, she might have been able to head off the next disastrous turn of events. Instead she maintained eye contact with Fenris, lifting her chin stubbornly, daring him to back away from a challenge she herself was willing to tackle.

He didn't disappoint. "Alright. Fine. We'll learn to read." He turned towards Hawke and managed an uncivil, "Thank you for the book."

Hawke wisely took what he could get. "You're welcome." His lips remained parted beneath his perfectly trimmed beard, and she could hear the unasked questions on his breath—the need to pry into Fenris' personal life—but he let the matter drop with a slight inclination of his head. He looked at her next, changing the subject, and offered, "Shall we head to the Hanged… Man…?"

She had no idea why his words suddenly trailed away. Or why he was staring at her, shocked, as if she'd grown a second head or had turned a shade of green. "What? Is there something in my teeth?" she asked calmly, almost humorously, continuing to try to lighten the mood, that nagging fear creeping into the back of her mind that, yes, somehow, someone could tell just by looking at her that she and Fenris had…

"How could you!" Anders' finally found his voice. Startled, her eyes swept past Hawke to find Anders no longer staring at her, but boring into Fenris. He had been holding himself back a bit from the others, probably because he didn't want to be associated with giving Fenris a gift. But he was dangerously focused on them now. She watched in trepidation as his eyes quickly left their normal gentle brown and burned with a lightning blue.

Justice.

"I don't know what you are taking about…" Fenris' denial was automatic, instinctive, and trite.

And Justice was not a patient spirit. "You used her!" His voice turned deep and hoarse, not as much as Fenris', but enough to show just how far Justice's control had expanded. He took a step forward, lips pulling into a feral snarl. "You took advantage of her!" He took another step, fingers curling like talons.

Fenris allowed the tome to swing down at his side, held tightly in one hand, as he took a step back.

Maker but she hated breaking up fights between the two of them. "No one took advantage of me…" Hrodwynn hummed dangerously, shoving herself off the table and following the two.

But Justice couldn't or wouldn't hear her. Nor would he allow Anders to hear her. He finally had the perfect excuse to take care of the condescending, ignorant, judgmental elf once and for all! "You moral-less, lecherous cad!" he continued, the power rushing through his limbs like blood, the aura of magic glowing in his hands. "You preyed on her innocence and forced yourself upon her person!" He began to lift his arms, taking his time, savoring the moment as he carefully assessed the distance between them. "For your depravity, you shall pay…"

Everything happened at once.

Justice/Anders threw a magic spell straight at the center of the elf's chest.

Fenris threw the tome with deadly accuracy at the mage's face.

Hrodwynn simply threw herself between them.

Hawke shouted an impotent warning—to everyone in general.

The tome arced perfectly through the air, its trajectory true. It slammed into Anders/Justice's face with enough force to slash through skin, shred blood vessels, shatter cartilage. Its heavy momentum snapped his head back, straining neck muscles, making him reel off-balance. He staggered for two steps before he found he could no longer keep his feet. Heavily he dropped to the floor, slapping the tiles hard enough to bruise his tailbone, legs spread awkwardly and limply, dropping to one elbow, all before the tome hit the ground just a few feet away.

Anders and Justice struggled for control, each entity gulping down lungfuls of air to try to clear their head. But they were uncoordinated; though their actions and motives were the same, they worked at cross-purposes with one another. In the end, only one of them could remain in control—the blood and the pain settled that dispute.

Anders groaned when he came to. The front of his face was on fire with a skull-penetrating ache beneath it that pulsed with each and every single heartbeat. There was a mild soreness around his tailbone and a stinging in his elbow that would have been very annoying if his face didn't feel like it had been smashed halfway in. He opened his eyes, the soft brown orbs slightly confused—and hurt—to find a growing puddle of his blood beneath him on the tile.

"Wha' habbeded?" he slurred, the hand at the end of the hurt arm holding the front of his face while his good arm tried to push himself off the floor.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him fast, keeping him from rising up while at the same time keeping him from falling back to the floor. Then a voice sounded, its familiar sardonic drawl warm and comforting. "No, don't get up, not quite yet."

He looked up and into the warm amber eyes of his love, and knew everything was alright. "Garred?"

Hawke visibly relaxed, seeing that Anders' eyes had returned to normal. He signaled to Fenris, not that he was sure Fenris was watching them but just in case, and kept his attention on Anders. "Anders, love, your nose is broken. Can you heal yourself?"

"Dad's bod all dad was broked," he muttered, shifting his ass into a more comfortable position. He was able to manage the simple spell, a soft blueish-white light suffusing the area between his hand and his face. After a moment the blood stopped trickling. Another moment and the spell had suffused his whole body. He took a deep breath and looked up at Hawke, his expression cleared of any pain or disorientation. Hawke pulled Anders' hand away and gingerly, tenderly, with a lover's care, his fingers explored Anders' face and made sure the features he loved so much were as they should be.

"Thank the Maker," he sighed, bringing out a handkerchief and wiping away the mess.

"What happened?" Anders' words were still muffled and slurred, this time from the fabric rather than battered flesh. "How did I end up like this?"

Hawke glanced off to the side and spoke a single word, "Justice."

Anders followed his gaze, his heart nearly stopping when he saw them. Absently he flapped his hands, pushing Hawke's ministrations away, trying to get his feet under him, struggling to reach them, to reach her, unable to accept or process what he was seeing. "Wynnie…?"

A few paces away, Fenris sat on the floor, Hrodwynn's limp body in his arms. He held her, cradled her, rocked her as he would a small child. He ignored the other two and kept his eyes on her face, his expression impassive, as his fingers tenderly tended a bruised and bloodied cheek, gently lifting wayward strands of hair from the injury.

"She's not dead," Hawke assured him, trying to help him to his feet so he could reach them. "She caught just the edge of the spell, not the full force, so it only knocked her out, thank the Maker."

"What spell?" he dropped to his knees beside the two, too weak and wobbly to continue to stand. He was lost, adrift, unable to fathom, unable to cope. Instinctively he fell back on what he was sure would be the root of all his troubles. "What did you do to her!" Anders hissed at the hated elf.

"It wasn't me," Fenris answered, his voice even darker than normal, his gaze never straying from her face. "It was Justice who did this to her!"

"I…" Anders was shocked, had been shocked, far too often in far too short a time. He couldn't comprehend, he simply could not accept the stark reality despite the evidence that lay bare before him. "He… no… he wouldn't… not Wynnie… he knows how I love her… how I care about her… he'd never harm her…"

"'He,' 'he,' 'he,'" Fenris repeated, his sneering voice oozing with sarcastic petulance. "So typical of a mage. 'It's not my fault I performed blood magic. The demon made me do it.'" He finally looked up, barely able to keep control of himself, to stop himself from invoking the lyrium and ripping through the chest just within arm's reach. Yet he did control himself, if only because Anders hadn't done so. "This IS your fault! You allowed Justice to possess you! You gave him purchase in your soul! You have granted him unrestricted access to your magic, your power, your abilities! For once in your life, stop screaming victim and take responsibility for your decisions! You chose to let Justice in. He could never have done this, if you hadn't." His voice took on the darkness of the grave, his green eyes just as devoid of life. “Mark my words, mage, you’ll be the death of her.”

Anders stared in horror, in rage, in denial…

But Hrodwynn was lying unconscious in Fenris' arms.

"Heal her," Hawke emotionlessly stated into the silence. "Heal Hrodwynn. Then let's step back for a moment."

It was easier, however much Anders might have hated it, at that moment it was so much easier to do as someone else commanded, than try to think of a course of action for himself. His hand reached out to her but hesitated, unsure if Fenris would allow it. It appeared, however, that the elf was also willing to follow Hawke's command, if only because Hrodwynn needed it. Anders finished reaching, brushed lightly against her cheek, and released the gentle spell of healing.

The ugly dark red bruise faded beneath her porcellanous skin, the cut knitting itself closed, leaving behind only the blood, which Fenris was quick to begin wiping away.

"Come on."

Hawke didn't wait for Anders, but took him by the elbow and yanked him to his feet. They walked away, back towards the foyer, Anders watching her the whole time until it at last looked like she was beginning to come around.

"I'd never hurt her," he affirmed, more out of his own need for assurance than any real conviction. "Justice would never hurt her. How could this have happened?"

"You lost control," Hawke answered. He wanted to be gentle—Maker knew how much he loved this man, how much he wanted to protect him and care for him and never ever harm him—but he was also afraid. He'd seen disturbing signs recently, signs that Justice was growing stronger, that Anders was suffering black-outs more frequently and for longer and longer periods of time. He didn't know exactly what effect Justice was having on him, or how devastating and permanent their unconventional co-habitation could be, which only served to overfill his heart with even more fear and dread. He had to try to reach Anders, to try to convince him that his pact with Justice was hurting them all—and, just maybe, a scare tactic might make it through Anders' stubbornness. "Justice accused Fenris of raping Hrodwynn. He was going to kill him. He cast a spell directly at Fenris, but Hrodwynn jumped in the way. She saved Fenris' life, but the spell struck her a glancing blow, knocking her out."

"What?" Anders felt like his brains were mired in thick mud. But Hawke's words, as blunt as they were, did have an impact. Bits and pieces of memory came back to him, heavily filtered and screened by Justice first. The mark on Hrodwynn's neck. Her mussed hair and passion-bruised lips. Fenris' state of being half-dressed and his confident swagger. Yes, it was obvious what he had done to her—no, Anders shook his head, not wanting to think about THAT.

Across the room, Fenris watched with baited breath while Hrodwynn's eyes batted open. They were unfocused at first, glazed, but after a few healthy blinks they settled on his features hovering above her. "Fen?" she breathed, feeling safe and calm and at ease within his embrace.

"Amatus," he breathed, "How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Are you dizzy?"

She shook her head, lifting her hand up to his cheek. "I'm good. You?"

Her cool fingers, petite and quick and dextrous, felt heavenly against his skin. He turned his face, pressing his lips against the palm of her hand, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he mouthed against her skin, "I'm fine, now that you're alright."

The way his lips moved… the warmth of his breath… Oh, Maker, how he could make her blush!

Anders stared at them, unable to believe what he saw, unable to accept the truth. Yet he couldn't pull his eyes away, couldn't turn away and deny their tender interaction, Fenris talking quietly to her, Hrodwynn gently shaking her head, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek, his lips turning to kiss her palm….

"Bloody shite…"

Hrodwynn didn't hear Anders' curse. Her vision, her hearing, her whole being was currently overrun with the man holding her. She could feel that blush heating her cheeks, which only served to deepen her embarrassment and darken the blush and… She had to change the subject, and the first thing that came to mind, was the one thing that wasn't coming to mind. "So, um, how did I end up like this?"

Venhedis, but he had been given a scare, when she had jumped in front of him and taken the spell for herself. His first—and only—concern had been to make sure she was still breathing. Now that she was alive and whole once more, he felt the need to bleed off some of the tension with a bit of levity. "You tried to use your face for a shield again," he gently teased her.

"Oh, no," she moaned softly, "Not my nose."

"No, not your nose," he assured her. "That's fine, nothing's broken. Your cheek was a bit banged up, but it's fine now, too." The pad of his thumb brushed off the last bit of blood.

She caught the drop of red out of the corner of her eye, and trying to make light of the situation as he had done, flashed him a smile and quipped, "At least I'm wearing a red shirt this time." When she saw him roll his eyes, she managed a small giggle and reached up to kiss his cheek. "Help me stand up, would you?"

He nodded, keeping his arms around her as she made to stand.

"He loves her."

Anders' blood boiled at Hawke's words, his hand clenching into a fist and shaking. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be true. Fenris hated Hrodwynn. He ridiculed and belittled her at every chance. It must be some trick. He must be coercing her in some way, or brainwashing her, or setting her up to be the butt of some sort of obscure, colossal joke…

Fenris was helping her to her feet, his whole attention on her needs, his hands holding her fast until he was sure she would remain standing.

Anders could feel Justice inside him, raging, struggling towards the surface, demanding control once more, vowing to take care of the situation. He knew he couldn't give in, he knew he had just done so and that's how Wynnie had gotten hurt. Yet how could he endure such vile and disgusting behavior?! "Bloody shite!" he cursed again, too loudly it turned out, as both Fenris and Hrodwynn turned to look at him.

"Anders!" she exclaimed, memory returning in a flash, the tome flying at his face, the spell shooting towards Fenris. And her foolish attempt to protect them both.

No, she realized, that wasn't quite true. She hadn't done anything to save Anders from his fate, trusting that Fenris wouldn't have delivered a killing blow. She hadn't trusted Anders, however—or, rather, she hadn't trusted Anders under control of Justice—and had placed herself in a position to save… Fenris… because she…

"He's using you!" Anders called out from across the room, breaking off her train of thought.

"To what purpose?" Fenris challenged. She felt him take a step forwards to face Anders, and she placed herself in front of him to vainly try to block his path.

"To hurt me," Anders answered, shifting his attention from Hrodwynn to Fenris. Since the elf spoke up and obviously wanted to finish their fight, he thought he would oblige him. He shoved off Hawke's restraining arm and took his own challenging step forwards. "You're using her, manipulating her feelings, trying to turn her against me, trying to drive a wedge between us."

Hrodwynn felt Fenris pushing at her shoulder, trying to maneuver her off to the side so he and Anders would have a clear path to each other. But she, and Hawke, were having none of it. She didn't escalate the situation, didn't shout, didn't raise her voice, but stated clearly, "Stop this right now."

"I won't have to do that," Fenris countered Anders, easily ignoring her. "You're doing such a wonderful job yourself already. It was your spell just now that struck her."

"I was aiming for you!"

"And she got caught in the crossfire!"

"That wasn't my fault!"

"Always the victim. Always misunderstood. Always unable to take responsibility…"

"Like there aren't times from when you were a slave, times when you conveniently claim a lack of responsibility for your own actions…"

Listening to them argue while being constantly poked and shoved was wearing her temper paper thin, and she lost control. "Shut it!" Hrodwynn practically screamed to get their attention. "Both of you!"

"Why should we?" Anders unthinkingly, childishly demanded.

"Because I love you both!"

A stark and solemn silence followed her words. Yet she couldn't take them back; she couldn't pull the sounds out of their ears and into her mouth and swallow them whole.

And neither did she want to. Though the declaration came as much of a surprise to her as to everyone else, she knew—dear, sweet blessed Andraste and all her virginal handmaidens—she knew the words were true. How… When… Why… That all escaped her. But she could see it clearly; she loved Fenris.

She turned to him first, standing so close to her they were nearly one, her bright emerald orbs holding his dull green gaze, refusing to waver, refusing to back down, refusing to let him go. "Please, Fenris," she began gently, all her heat evaporating before brunt of her personal epiphany, "For my sake, don't fight. I'm not asking you to like Anders or even give up your hatred of him, but please understand, I care about him. It hurts me to see the two of you at each other's throats," she moved her hand from his chest to his cheek. "So, for my sake, to spare me pain, would you pretend to get along, or at least not openly fight right in front of me?"

Fasta vass, but Fenris could not deny her. However wrong he felt she was, however ignorant of the danger of mages, however blind to the doomed path Anders was walking—she had said she loved him. He would fight an entire Blight single-handedly if only to hear those words grace her wine-red lips again. "I promise you, I won't start anything where you can see."

It wasn't quite what she had asked for, but she took what she could get. "And you," she turned to Anders, letting go of Fenris and trusting him to keep his word. "Anders, I love you like a big brother, or some favorite uncle, but please try to understand—I love Fenris, too. In a differently way, of course. But I can't bear it anymore when you two fight. Please, Anders," she took a step away from Fenris and towards the tormented mage, though it was only a single step, her proximity to the elf speaking volumes, "For my sake, no more."

Anders was torn apart. He had seen her eyes grow wide in shock, and perhaps a little fear, earlier over her initial admittance of her love, but that had been quickly replaced with assurance. Even now, the love she felt for them both suffused her features, though the fact that she remained beside Fenris cut him to the quick. He couldn't face her, couldn't look her in the eyes, couldn't see the expression on her face, not after what had just happened. He turned away, blindly groping for the door, mumbling, "I need a drink."

Hawke started after him a few steps before he stumbled over the forgotten book. He stopped and turned to look back at Fenris and Hrodwynn. "Er…" he stalled, trying to find the words, but there were none for this situation. Instead he reached down to pick up the book and handed it to Fenris. "Try to give him some time. It is quite a shock. And quite sudden. And… well… we'll see you at the Hanged Man later," he ended in a rush. In the blink of an eye he was out the door and after Anders.

Hrodwynn stared after them, feeling the sting of tears threaten at her eyes. "This… is not how I wanted to… well, you know…"

"…Tell your best friend that you're in love with his mortal enemy?" he bluntly finished for her. He set the tome on a nearby table, noticing that Anders blood had stained the binding. He allowed himself to feel a bit of satisfaction over the mark, since he was behind Hrodwynn's back where she couldn't see.

She sighed, holding her arms as if she was feeling a chill. "Something like that."

Fenris heard the melancholy in her voice and felt a small amount of remorse. "Amatus," he breathed, coming up behind her, placing his hands over hers, giving her a slight squeeze. Maybe, after today, after what had just happened, maybe he could finally make her see what was so painfully obvious to him. Maybe the truth, the whole awful truth, might help ease her uneasiness. "I know it's hard for you to accept, but you can't ignore it any longer. You can't tell me you don't see it."

"See what?" she lamely tried to deny.

"See how much he's changed," Fenris turned her around to face him, sensing her weakness. "See how dangerous he is. Justice is a demon, a demon that is possessing Anders' body. Such a thing…" his voice trailed away, growing darker with the heavy weight of experience. "Well, it's an abomination, the same as blood magic. Can't you see that?"

She wanted to deny it. She clamped her eyes closed, turned her head to the side, tensed her muscles beneath his touch. Yet she knew Anders had allowed Justice to take control this evening, and so quickly, so thoughtlessly, even to the point where it put her in danger—her, Hrodwynn, his Wynnie. If he could let her come to harm, even inadvertently, what would stop him from allowing innocents to become collateral damage? But… "…He wasn't always like this."

Her voice was small, like that of a girl, as if she was once more that shivering, half-starved waif stealing into Anders' life just a few years ago. "When we first met, that very first night," she gave a breathy sort of laugh, opening her eyes over the memory. "It was one of the coldest nights I'd ever known in Kirkwall. I picked the lock on his little shop. I didn't think anyone was living there, and I just wanted someplace quiet and disused to spend the night. I don't know who was more surprised, me to find someone actually living there, or Anders to find himself suddenly with a visitor." She laughed again, leaning forwards to rest her head against his.

"We spent that first night talking. Just talking. He was such a mild man, timid, almost fearful. He explained why it looked like no one lived there, how he was hiding from some bad people and didn't want anyone to think the shop was occupied, so they wouldn't think to look for him there. But I saw him, Fenris, I saw him for who he was. I saw his gift, his compassion, his empathy. He wanted to help people. He wanted to do what's right. He wanted to be a good man. I have to believe, he still does."

She pressed herself even closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso, burrowing into him as she would burrow beneath a comforter for warmth. "Because I'm responsible for what he's become. I encouraged him to open the clinic, to help the sick and injured of Darktown. I encouraged him to come out of his shell, to open up, to make friends—other than his cat. If I'd left him there, in his little hideout, safe and alone and anonymous…" her words trailed away into a hiccough.

"It's not your fault, amatus," he stroked her back, softening his voice from a growl to a deep purr. "You are not responsible. What happened to Anders, what is happening to him, started long before the two of you met. It started when he allowed Justice to share his person. From that moment on, he was doomed."

"But…" her voice trembled, her shoulders convulsed, "But… he has to be saved… there has to be a way… to help him… there must… I love him, too… I can't let him… just…"

Fenris had seen far more of demon possession that Hrodwynn ever had, hopefully ever would. He knew how futile it would be to try to save Anders. But she was clinging to him, begging him for help, unwilling and unable to give up on a friend—one of the qualities he loved about her so much. Hating himself, he tried giving her false hope, stalling for time. "It's… possible to help Anders, I suppose, if the demon leaves willingly. Or perhaps we could find a way to force it out of him, force it to release its hold over him. We can try to think of something. Or ask Hawke for help. He loves Anders, too; he would fight to the death to save him."

"He would, wouldn't he," she sniffed, pulling back a little bit. "And Hawke does have a way about him, of finding a way to do the impossible. If anyone can help Anders, it's Hawke." She nodded, trying to convince herself. "He's in good hands. That reminds me," she took Fenris' hand in one of hers, wiped her eyes with the other, and started for the door, "We need to get to the Hanged Man."

"Are you sure?" he hedged, pulling his hand free, but not to stay behind. He kept pace with her, only he wanted to be able to use both hands to close the front of his coat. "Anders will probably be there, drinking; it is the only place in Kirkwall to find a decent drink. He might not want to see me right now. Or… you…"

She stopped, and he took the time to finish straightening his clothing. "Maybe so," she allowed, "But you and I are in a relationship. I won't hide that from him. And the sooner he gets used to the idea, the better. By the way, how did he figure it out?" she resumed her course, and he was glad he had left his belt and weapons near the foyer. He grabbed what he could and jogged a few steps to catch up with her.

"Sorry, I missed that," he muttered, fumbling with his accessories as he followed her outside.

"How did he know we'd slept together?" she repeated, feeling a little cross, and more than a little embarrassed when she realized she had spoken a little too loudly, and the streets were still bustling with evening traffic. She ignored the stares of any passers-by, dropped her voice, and slowed her pace, offering to take his gauntlets while he fiddled with his belt. "It's not like there's a sign on my forehead or something that says, 'My cherry was just popped by an elf!'" She took one look at Fenris, his hunched shoulders, his ducked head, his far too deep concern over his buckle, and had to wonder, "Is there?!"

When he didn't answer right away, she grabbed his elbow and turned him towards her, her tone exasperated as she begged, "Fenris!"

He sighed, knowing he couldn't not answer her. He shook off her hold, took his gauntlets, and started them both back down the street. "It could have been any number of things. Your tunic, for instance, isn't tucked in neatly. And your hair is mussed. And, there mighthavebeenamarkonyourneck."

His words were hasty, slurred, answering her and at the same time hoping she wouldn't understand. He could feel her eyes boring into his skull from the side, and knew her stare would not diminish until he gave her an answer she could comprehend. "What was that last bit?"

Fenris cringed, wanting to crawl into a dark corner and hide. He remembered giving it to her, how he felt over marking her creamy skin, secretly enjoying the fact that he was giving her a blemish, branding her as his own, staking his territory. Now, the idea didn't seem quite as fun. "There was a love bite on your neck. One I gave you. It's healed now, but it was quite large. And prominently placed."

She turned to look down the street, not half as upset as he had feared over the love bite. "And from some silly little bruise, he deduced that we had…"

"As I said, there were other factors," he added. "They came by unannounced, and it was fairly obvious that we—both of us—got dressed very quickly. It was a logical assumption to make. Also," he leaned in close to her ear, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin, "You have a certain… glow… about you that wasn't there before. A certain… confidence in a new ability… or joy over a new discovery…"

Her cheeks felt as hot as the sun. "You're teasing me!"

"Am I?" he challenged. Seemingly unconcerned, he straightened up and continued walking down the street, whistling a little tune between his teeth, this time forcing her to have to keep up with him.

She got her answer as soon as they reached the Hanged Man. Though the tavern was crowded, though the music was loud, though there was plenty to distract her, Isabela's gaze zeroed in on the two of them from the moment the door opened. The lady pirate's shrewd eyes swept them both from head to toe, twice, as they walked up to the table. Then she flicked over to Anders, who turned his shoulder to them and resolutely refused to acknowledge their presence.

"Maker damn it!" she pounded the table.

Varric leaned back and chuckled, idly shuffling cards in his hands. "Pay up, Rivaini. Three gold coins."

"But you haven't even dealt the cards, yet," Merril protested. "How can she pay, if we haven't played the hand? Besides, she usually wins."

"Not today, it seems," Isabela gave Hrodwynn a huge, and good-natured, wink, "It's Button's turn to 'win'."

"I'll get us something to drink," Fenris offered quietly, and very quickly, leaving Hrodwynn to face the music on her own.

"Sit down," Isabela patted the bench next to her. "You're making a scene, standing and staring like that, all by yourself. You know he'll be back. In the meantime," she leaned her ample bosom across the table, her eyes flashing with mischief, "You and I can have a little chat. Compare notes. That sort of thing."

"Oh, wait, I get it," Merril snapped her fingers, "This is something dirty again, isn't it."

"Now why would you think that, Daisy," Varric tried to deflect her, if only for Hrodwynn's sake. The poor woman was looking uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot, not really wanting to sit next to Isabela but the only other space that was large enough for her and Fenris was next to Anders…

"Oh, it's just a guess," the Dalish elf admitted, "Every time something is said or goes on that I don't quite understand, I just assume it has to be something dirty. And it usually it is, so it saves time. Like tonight, I just assume that Hrodwynn and Fenris had sex…"

"Fuck me!" choked Hawke, startled by Merril's bluntness. Anders, too, was choking on his drink.

"I offered," Isabela droned, piercing him with a pout, "But you declined, remember."

"Declined what?" Sebastian asked, coming up behind Hrodwynn. He arrived with Aveline, the two of them taking the empty spaces next to Anders. "Is it another job, Hawke? I'd be willing to take her place, if you're offering. I know I'm more of an archer than a knife-fighter, but…"

"I didn't think you'd have the time or a need to hire yourself out for mercenary jobs, being a Choir Boy and all," Varric's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I'm not here for the money," Sebastian denied. "I'm here to help people. And Hawke continually presents opportunities to do so. He's like an artesian well of goodwill and outreach. I can't even imagine the number of people I will be able to reach with the love of the Maker, just by…"

"Alright, alright," Varric held up his hands in defeat, "I'm sorry I asked. No, there's no job; we just finished with one. Tonight's all about cards. Should I deal you in?"

Hrodwynn quietly took the spot next to Isabela, praying all the while that Fenris would hurry up. The conversation seemed to be sporadic and wide-ranging, flitting from subject to subject like a bird. But sitting right next to Isabela, there'd be too many opportunities for the lady pirate to quietly whisper some suggestive comment or intimate question.

Fenris did return with two tankards, saw Sebastian and Aveline had joined them, and saw Hrodwynn sitting next to Isabela looking like she'd was facing the Orlesian court again. He seemed to do some quick mental athletics, because before Hrodwynn could call him over, he set the drinks down in front of Sebastian and Aveline and went back for more.

She wanted to curse under her breath, but Merril chose that time to lean over and quietly ask a question. Or rather, she meant for the question to be quiet, starting out with, "So was I right?" But of course the music chose that precise moment to pause between songs, and everyone heard, "Did you and Fenris sleep together? Oh! Excuse me. That was supposed to be private."

Isabela chortled, her bosom bobbing with the force of her laughter. Varric, too, was hard pressed to keep a straight face, though he tried his hardest for Hrodwynn's sake. Aveline rolled her eyes and sighed, much like a mother would have, and Sebastian tsk'd his tongue with chaste disapproval. Anders did his best to hide behind his mug, then decided it would work better if he upended it over his open mouth. Hawke looked as uncomfortable as Hrodwynn, who was seriously considering sinking beneath the table herself.

Fenris chose that moment to return again, two more mugs in hand, and immediately knew he had come back too soon. He cleared his throat as he settled himself down between Hrodwynn and Isabela. "So, er, what are we playing tonight. Diamondback?"

"And here one would think you'd be up for something a little wicked," Isabela cooed into his ear.

He leaned away from her, not wanting to encourage any such thing, but that made him lean far too close to Hrodwynn. He thought he should pull back a little bit, keep things proper and chaste in front of the others, but that would mean leaning back into Isabela. Hrodwynn settled his wobbling by putting her arm around his waist, keeping him at her side, and daring anyone to make fun of the blush darkening her cheeks to match her hair. "Wicked Grace sounds good, too," she lifted her chin. "But it's usually dealer's choice, isn't it?" she nodded to Varric, who had been absently shuffling the cards this whole time.

"But that's not fair; I never get to shuffle," Isabela pouted.

"Because you always stack the deck," Fenris countered.

"Speaking of stacks…"

"No, Isabela," he held up his hand, gauntlet and all.

"What? I was just going to ask how things stacked up…"

"Don't go there!"

"With your cuts from our latest adventure, comparing your stack to Hrodwynn's." She picked up her cards, "I imagine hers is bigger than yours," she shifted a few around in her hand, "Nearly as big as mine."

Merril leaned over towards Varric and asked, "She's still talking about something dirty, right?"

Varric sighed, "Just look at your cards, Daisy. That's a good girl."


	24. At Odds with Oneself

"Fuck…" Hrodwynn remarked to herself, amazed at how things could go downhill so quickly.

She knew she shouldn't be surprised; she was with Hawke, after all, and he had a way of making even simple jobs turn hairy in a heartbeat. Yet this job hadn't been simple from the start. It had been Anders' suggestion, his plea, his final attempt to convince the others that his fellow mages still trapped inside the circles were in mortal danger—or worse. Years ago he'd described to her what it meant to be made Tranquil, and she shuddered over the memory—not so much what he said, but how his voice sounded when he said it. '…a fate worse than death…'

Few of them had agreed to help Anders and Hawke, especially after he said they would have to break into the Gallows, the very heart of the templar stronghold, to find evidence of this supposed plot. She had been for it from the start, almost before Hawke had agreed, still feeling the need to assert her loyalty towards Anders after admitting her love for another. Fenris had reluctantly volunteered, but she suspected it was more to disprove Anders' theory than confirm it. Sebastian, too, seemed of the same mindset as Fenris. No one had else wanted to risk their neck for such an improbable delusion. That had suited Anders just fine; the smaller the party, the easier it would be to sneak into a heavily guarded complex overrun with templars.

She swallowed, thinking back over the past few hours. The job had been trouble right from the beginning, starting with finding the entrance to the tunnel leading from Darktown to the Gallows. Anders had neglected to mention that the tunnel was used by lyrium smugglers, not until after the ambush, anyway. That hadn't won him any points with Fenris, who almost turned around right then and there. But Hrodwynn wasn't about to abandon Anders, and Fenris wasn't about to abandon her, so he had stayed.

After that fight, they continued down the tunnel until they reached a small chamber-like area, some of the roof having caved in long enough ago to dapple the room with shafts of sunlight, and allow grass and wildflowers to find purchase amongst the boulders. Yet the pastoral beauty was lost on her, being too busy trying to keep body and soul together. They had stumbled across this Ser Alrik that Anders was after, along with a squad of templars, all armed to the teeth and clothed with full armor and zealous fervor.

And Justice had swiftly taken over her friend.

The inevitable fight had ensued, but Hrodwynn's focus had tunneled down to her immediate surroundings. While the others had strode into battle in various fighting stances, Sebastian had stood up straight and tall and square to fire his arrows, oblivious to the fact that he had made himself a tempting target. She had been forced to remain by his side, fighting the urge to curse the faith that made him trust blindly to some uncaring Maker who supposedly would somehow keep him from dying. She had quickly lost track of Fenris, and Anders and Hawke for that matter, and could only trust them to their fates while she did her best to keep the templars from flanking the Brother.

"What was that?" Sebastian asked, notching another arrow to his bowstring.

She almost blushed; of course the one thing he would have heard her say was a curse word. Not the cry of alarm, not the suggestion that they take cover behind a conveniently placed boulder, not the urging to adjust his stance, but the fucking swearword! "I said," she looked past his shoulder, giving up trying to reason with the bloody git. One hand pulled down his bow arm and threw him off balance while the other shifted its hold on her knife, "Duck!"

The metal missile flew from her fingers, end over end, flashing in the muted sunlight. Sebastian followed her lead, allowing her to pull him out of the way, twisting his body and swinging the bow and arrow around even as he fell, letting loose the arrow before he hit the ground.

"Nice shot," she grudgingly admired. The templar soldier was dead, one eye socket pierced by an arrow, the other by her knife.

"Could have landed better," Sebastian groused, gaining his feet and turning away from the body. "He broke my shaft."

She was very glad he had turned his back, her shoulders shaking with giggles while she drew her dagger from the dead man's head. Maker, but she must be exhausted, the adrenaline running out, if she was to the giggling stage. "What was that?"

"I'm running low on arrows," Sebastian explained, choosing to ignore the laughter he heard in her voice. "I could have reused that one, if he hadn't broken the shaft when he landed on the ground."

"That's what I thought you meant," she wiped the blood and gore off on her leggings, deciding then and there that a light tan was not the best color for her line of work, and returned to his side. "If you'd like, I could slip out and scavenge around for a bit. There are quite a few arrows out there that either missed their mark or bounced off of some hidden piece of armor. But I would feel better about it if you'd take cover behind that rock, while I'm away."

The suggestions was lost on him. "No need," he let loose his third-to-last arrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a brief though satisfied smirk when it sank into the neck of another soldier. "I think the fight's drawing to a close."

She followed his gaze. The two of them had remained near the entrance, while the others had strode forward into the thick of it, Justice/Anders with his unearthly glow, Hawke with his mace-like staff, and Fenris swinging his greatsword while his markings shone. She could see them, now that only Ser Alrik and a single soldier remained, and a brief bout of anxiety slipped around her heart. Fenris was bleeding, half of his white hair soaked bright red, the life-sustaining liquid flowing freely down his shoulder and back. She knew it might not be as serious as it looked, head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but she would not feel assurance until she checked him over for herself.

"There, there, sweet lady," Sebastian patted her hand; somehow it had found it's way to his arm, gripping the edge of a plate of armor with claw-like fierceness. "I'm sure he's fine. He's still able to keep his feet. If it had been a serious blow to his head, he'd have been knocked out."

She made some sort of sound, a non-committal grunt or groan. She watched as Fenris' gauntleted fist sank into the chest of the soldier, past all armor, causing the man to turn pale and gray. The next moment, she all but screamed when the soldier brought his sword arm down in a killing blow. The blade passed harmlessly through Fenris' glowing body, however, striking the ground with a ringing force that wrenched the hilt from the dying man's hand.

Then it was over, Anders having killed the leader, Ser Alrik, himself. An abrupt, short end that left everyone panting for a moment in shock.

Hrodwynn was moving before she thought, her steps light and quick, her hair brushed back from her face by the breeze of her passage. She reached Fenris' side just as he moaned, just as the final drop of his adrenaline wore off, just as his knees began to buckle, just as the blood loss began to take effect.

She grabbed hold of him, ignoring the sting where a spike of his armor pressed against her arm. He felt her grip and reacted, or tried to, the lyrium tattoos on his body pulsing, but he was unable to fully invoke them, too weakened by all the fighting and too disorientated by the blow to his head, the concussion in full force now that the danger had passed. He blinked at her, his eyes not wanting to focus, but he'd know those Agreggio Pavali lips anywhere. "Amatus…?"

"Easy," she whispered, her voice for his ears only, "Easy, Fen. I've got you. It's over now. No more fighting. You can sit down for a moment, alright? Catch your breath? Doesn't that sound like a good idea?"

"My… breath…"

"Here you go, Fenris," Sebastian joined in, taking up Fenris' other side. Together they guided him over to a rock and made him sit down. "Do as the nice lady says. Let her take a look at your head. That's a good lad."

Something was overly familiar with that particular phrase, something Danarius used to say to him… He shook his head, attempting to push away the thought, but his skull exploded with pain. He grimaced, one hand reaching up to try to keep his brains inside where they belonged.

He came in contact with something warm and sticky.

Then he received a smart rap on the back of his hand, making him jerk it away. He tried to look over his shoulder to see who had smacked him, but a hand to either side of his head made him look forwards once more. So instead he stared at the red on his fingers, the pad of his thumb smearing it across the digits. He knew it was his blood, but couldn't make himself remember how it had happened. That was his last, self-aware thought for quite some time.

"Anders needs to heal this," Hrodwynn hummed.

"That… might be a while…" Sebastian warned.

Again Hrodwynn found herself following his gaze. She was usually more aware of her surroundings, but seeing Fenris injured had caused everything else to recede into the background. Now she paid attention to what was happening, to Justice still controlling Anders, to the heated discussion between them and Hawke, to the young mage woman cowering before them.

"Justice… answers to nobody!" He shook off Hawke'e restraining hand, swinging his staff back, preparing to deliver a killing blow.

"No!" Hrodwynn leapt forward before she had finished shouting. Not again, she prayed, in case there was a Maker up there who just might occasionally care or listen to puny mortals such as her self. She knew how Anders felt about innocents, about mages, and if Justice killed this young woman…

She knew he'd never be able to live with himself.

She reached their side just as they began swinging the staff, yanking on their arm with all her strength, pulling their blow off course. A clod of dirt burst apart just a few feet from the mage, but she remained unharmed. Justice spun around to face Hrodwynn, the full force of his wrath shining like sunlight from Anders' eyes, the unbridled energy showing through jagged cracks in Anders' skin. Justice's ire and rage rose up into the air like a dark shadow, shimmering like heat waves off Anders' body, making the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. But she would not let go.

"You!"

"Anders, please," she begged, ignoring the vengeful spirit, trying to reach her friend locked away inside, "You don't want to hurt her. You don't want to hurt anybody. Please, Anders, not again. For my sake. Not. Again."

"Again…" Justice/Anders moaned… memory sluggish… Wynnie… his Wynnie… stepping forward into the path of his spell… his Wynnie… lying inert in another's arms… his Wynnie… injured by his hand…

Anders screamed in fear and pain and rage. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, taking hold of Justice, ripping control of their body—his body—out of the spirit's clutches, pushing and shoving and forcing the other entity back into its corner. It pained him, it physically pained him, causing every nerve ending to burst apart, every fiber of his being to thrum with agony. But he'd almost killed Wynnie the other week—thought he had killed her for a single, eternally torturous moment. He could not let Justice harm Wynnie again. He would not.

Not. Again.

It was dark. But it was not quiet. Anders could hear a woman whimpering in fear. There was the labored breathing of a man in deep pain. Closer to hand was the feather-soft rustle of supple fabric, followed closely by the gentle voice of his Wynnie.

"Anders?"

He pulled his hands from his face, coming out of the darkness and into the harsh light—the light of day, the light of reality, the light of truth. He blinked up at the people around him, the brightness making his eyes water, and felt an undeserved relief swell his chest. His Wynnie was unharmed. The mage was unharmed. He—Justice—whoever or whatever—no one had harmed them.

But Fenris was harmed; he remembered how, during the fight, the elf had stepped forward to block a blow that would have severed Anders' arm at the elbow, and for his trouble, had opened himself up to a glancing blow from a mace against his skull.

Hawke, too, was holding his side, deeply bruised if not bleeding internally from a cracked rib. He had received his injury at the hands of a templar whom Justice could have easily killed, but instead ignored because he wanted to get at Alrik. That made two people who had gotten hurt because of him, because of Justice, because of blind rage. His blindness.

Everything was falling apart. Everything was crumbling into dust. And the more Anders tried to make things right, the more things went wrong. Perhaps Fenris was right after all. Perhaps he was a monster, an abomination. Perhaps it was all his fault, all the hurt and evil and wrongness, all because he had allowed Justice to join with him. Perhaps he was weak, too weak, too inept to fight off the temptations of demons or spirits, and should have been killed long ago after his own harrowing.

He looked to Sebastian, but the Brother studiously avoided his gaze. He looked to Fenris, but his eyes were unfocused due to his injury. He looked to Hawke, but his face was tight with pain. He looked to Wynnie, but all he could see was the vision of her inert form in Fenris' arms from a week ago. He looked to the mage, but the young woman was curled in on herself, shivering in fear.

"No, I… I can't, I… Maker… please… forgive me…!"

Hrodwynn heard the pain in his voice, though she had no inkling of an idea of what excruciating torment he was enduring. She watched in awful amazement as he raced away.

"Hawke…" her voice was begging, but what could he do. She could tell as easily as Anders that the man was in no shape to go running off after him. He gave his head a gentle shake, seeming to confirm her suspicions.

"I could follow him," offered Sebastian. He was standing next to Fenris, trying to keep the elf from falling off the rock. Fenris seemed blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had nearly happened, and Hrodwynn selfishly felt thankful for that; she really didn't need Fenris' unswerving hatred of all mages right then.

"No, Sebastian," Hawke grimaced and stood up straight, dropping his hand to his side. "Thank you, but I should be the one to talk with him. Hrodwynn," he turned to her, daring her to tell him of his injuries, "I don't suppose you remembered to pack a healing potion or two?"

She made a sour face, "Didn't think of it. We had a healer with us."

He nodded, already having expected the answer and resigning himself to the inevitable. "Fenris is in bad shape, isn't he?"

It wasn't quite a question, but she confirmed it, "His skull is cracked, not busted thankfully, but there's probably some bleeding going on inside, judging by how much is going on outside. The sooner he gets to a healer or a healing potion, the better."

Hawke nodded. "Take him up the tunnel, towards the Gallows."

"Towards the templars?!" she countered, incredulous.

"Yes. It's closer than Darktown, and more likely to have a healer near at hand. Speak with a Knight-Captain Cullen. He's an honorable man; he'll help you. Sebastian, go with them; Hrodwynn's going to need your help keeping Fenris on his feet. You, too," he turned to the young mage woman, reaching his hand out to her.

"No," she backed away, shaking her head. She had started to think things might be turning out alright, now that the possessed mage had left, but this other mage seemed just as insane if he wanted her to return to the Gallows. "No… no, I… I won't… I can't… I'm a runaway… they'll punish me… make me Tranquil!"

"No, they won't," Hawke assured her, taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet. "Go with my friends here. They'll back up your story, how Ser Alrik tricked you into coming here, and was going to force the Tranquil ritual on you. Won't you, Hrodwynn? Sebastian?"

"Is that what was going on?" he asked. Hrodwynn's elbow in his side didn't hurt, but it did convey the message. Quickly he recalled Anders' version of events and recited, "I mean, er, aye, young maiden, we know Ser Alrik was forcing you, and other mages, into rebelling so he could legally make them Tranquil. We know you didn't mean to run. You were coerced."

"Truly?" she asked, starting to give in.

"Why else do you think we were down here," shrugged Hrodwynn, making it up on the spot, but damn if it wasn't making sense, "Right at the same time Alrik had tricked you into coming here, unless we knew what he was doing and were here to stop him. Now, come on," she smiled at the other young woman, her voice gentle, her eyes shining with confidence she didn't feel. She didn't like the idea of bringing this scared woman back to a place where she'd been tormented to the point where she felt she had to run away, even knowing she'd be made Tranquil if she were ever caught. But Fenris needed help now, and the Gallows was closest, and… "It'll be safer for you, back inside the Circle, than out there among the wilds, especially now that Alrik is dead. He won't be there to torture you any longer."

"But," she bit her lip as Hrodwynn took her hand from Hawke, "It'll be just my word, against Ser Alrik's. Even if he is dead, he was a templar…"

"Don't forget my word," Sebastian chimed in. "I am a Brother of the Chantry. If I say I was investigating something strange regarding Ser Alrik's actions, even the Knight-Commander herself will have to listen to me." He slipped Fenris' arm across his shoulders and stood up, bringing the elf with him and starting up the tunnel. He did have to admit, privately at the very least, that for once Anders' paranoia appeared to be true.

Hawke paused a moment to watch them go, listening to Hrodwynn talking calmly to soothe the shaking mage, making sure they could manage before he turned away. He had several things he needed to do before he could rejoin them. The first of which was to search Alrik's body for any evidence, just in case the Knight-Captain wasn't as honorable as Hawke remembered him to be.

Then, he'd have to try to save Anders before he did anything stupid.

* * *

 

"And just how did you get in here?"

Hrodwynn lifted her chin, her bright emerald eyes flashing at a pair of hard hazel orbs. "I'll explain later, but first we need medical attention for this man. Please. His skull's been cracked. He's bleeding. He needs help."

"I'll tell you all you want to know, and more," Sebastian offered, "But as the lady says, this man needs a healer quickly or he'll die. And if that happens," the Brother moved to stand squarely in front of the templar, "His death will be on your conscience."

The Knight-Captain stared at the Brother. Maker's breath, but he hated taking orders from a Brother or Sister of the Chantry, but it would be too difficult to determine just then who out ranked whom. Besides, the elf did look to be in pretty poor shape. "You, there!" he called out into the courtyard at random, hardly taking his eyes off of the foursome in front of him, "Recruit!"

"Ser!" a voice immediately answered.

Cullen nearly smiled to himself, having been fairly sure that there would be a green recruit hanging around nearby; the day was too nice for there not to be someone out here taking advantage of it rather than studying. "Show the young lady and her friend to a room where they can wait. And send one of the healers to them. Well, quickly, man. Move!"

The recruit jumped, slapped a hasty salute, and all but pulled the elf from the Chantry Brother's arms.

He allowed a brief moment of pleasure over the eagerness of the recruit's response, before he turned towards the young mage woman. "And you, what's your part in all this?"

"I'll be explaining that as well," Sebastian, free of Fenris' inert form, set his hand now on the young mage's shoulder, "But I give you my word, she is an innocent in this affair."

Cullen stared hard, first at Sebastian, then at the girl, but neither wavered. "Very well. Off with you, girl, get back to your studies. I'm sure there's a class or something you're missing."

"Yes, ser, thank you, ser," she bobbed and babbled, before racing away.

"Now, then," Cullen turned the full force of his hard stare at the Brother, who remained immune behind his merry, bright blue eyes, "What's this all about?"

Hrodwynn didn't hear Sebastian's answer, already too far across the courtyard and traveling further away with each and every step. She didn't like it, splitting up, but Fenris needed healing and she was not going to leave his side until he was whole once more. She didn't like the gray color to his face, or how his eyes remained unfocused, or his quick and shallow breaths, or his stumbling steps. He seemed unaware of his surroundings, despite being awake, merely going along with whomever was currently supporting and tugging on him, and this passiveness from him was the most alarming symptom of all.

She also didn't like it the further they went into the Gallows. Not that she had anything against templars personally, but she knew they would be after Anders if they knew where to find him. And SHE knew where to find him. Maker, if Fenris came out of his stupor and let something—anything—slip…

"Here we are, lady," the recruit paused outside a door, one of what appeared like hundreds of similar doors, stretching down an endless hallway. "This room's vacant, at the moment. You and your friend can use it until he's feeling better. I'll just drop him off and go and get a healer, if you could just get the door…"

"What? Oh, right, the door!" she fumbled for the latch and barely got it opened before she tried to enter the room. It was sparse, a pair of bunks along one wall, a pair of chests and a single desk along the other wall. The nameless recruit shifted Fenris around so he could settle him on the bottom bunk, Hrodwynn sitting on Fenris' other side. She was lost deep in her thoughts, barely hearing the templar excuse himself, barely acknowledging his closing the door behind him, barely feeling Fenris' unresponsive hand in her own unresponsive hand…

Anders had been right, she thought to herself, gnawing her lip as her eyes stared blankly across the room. Anders had been right. There had been a sinister plot, there had been a very real danger here, there had been templars purposefully making mages Tranquil. Now that they were out of the tunnel, now that Fenris would soon be healed, now that she had a moment to stop and think, it all came crashing down onto her shaking shoulders.

Anders had been right.

"…bloody shite…"

There was a knock at the door, a smart and rather loud rap that echoed in the sparse room. Hrodwynn jumped to her feet, Maker but the thought of being surrounded by so many templars was making her edgy. She swallowed and set Fenris' hand back on his lap, the elf not stirring, before turning and calling out, "Yes, who's there?"

"I was sent for," a calm voice answered, sounding muted and bored through the door, "I was told there's an injured man who needs tending."

"Thank the Maker," she breathed, assuming it was the healer outside the door. She wanted this done and over with, and not just because Fenris was injured. The sooner he was better, the sooner they could leave. And the sooner they left, the sooner she could track down Anders. She was getting stronger and stronger misgivings about Anders' state of mind; despite the fact that he'd been proven right—for once even Fenris would have to admit that—she could still remember the agony in his voice when he realized what Justice had nearly done. She needed to make sure he was alright, too; and she was not about to take Hawke's word for it—she would see Anders for herself. She yanked the door open and came face-to-face with a youngish man dressed in plain clothes, not the mage healer she had been expecting. "You're not a mage."

"No, I'm not," he agreed, affecting a slight smile. "I was sent here to tend to an injured man, clean his wounds, before the healer arrives."

"Oh! Right, he's, er, he's on the bed. It's his head's been injured. Cracked skull. Bleeding a lot."

"Yes, I can see that," the man answered mildly. He walked over to Fenris, who had remained on the bed, though now he was leaning against the frame. Carefully he set the basin full of water down on the bed before sitting down himself, taking hold of Fenris and turning his head so he could see the wound on his scalp. The man was neither hurried nor reluctant, but emotionless, staid, even…

No, no, nonono, Hrodwynn could not allow herself to accept the coincidence. Yet it was true. She ducked down, making it look like she was kneeling by Fenris' other side, taking his hand to offer him comfort. Truthfully, however, it was to check for, and find, the sunburst symbol on the man's forehead, all but hidden beneath a thick swathe of bangs.

He was a Tranquil.

"Head wounds do bleed a lot, don't they," he said by way of making conversation, while his hands gently dabbed at Fenris' hair, which was changing from dark red to dark pink as he washed away the blood.

"Yes, they do," she muttered an answer, trying to think. Too much had happened, too much was happening, too much needed to happen…

"It looks scary, I know," he wrung out the rag and went back to his gentle ministrations, "But everything will be alright. The bleeding's mostly stopped already. And as soon as Vera's here, she'll heal your friend and this will all be over."

Her mind couldn't form anything coherent, not with the Tranquil's prattling. "What?" she blinked at him, shaking her head, making no sense of either his words, or her own thoughts.

"I said," he answered mildly, unperturbed by either her short words, or shorter tone of voice, "As soon as Vera is here, your friend will be healed. She is one of our best healers. I suppose I should apologize. I only meant to soothe your fears, not upset you. I know my kind can make most people feel uneasy, but I assure you," he lifted his eyes from Fenris' wound to hold her gaze, "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Did…" she stopped herself as quickly as she started, not as fearful of the Tranquil as she was fearful of what she was about to ask. Yet the impulse was too strong, the words tumbling out, her will to stop them far too inadequate, "Did Ser Alrik make you Tranquil?"

He showed no surprise over her question, or anxiety over answering, or really any type of emotion other than to hand her the cloth and stand. "I should leave before Vera arrives; I know my presence, like the presence of any Tranquil, makes her uneasy, as she's still a mage. Excuse me," he bowed to her and started for the door.

She couldn't let him go that easily, not without some sort of answer, not without yet even more proof that what she and the others had done was, pardon the pun, justified. "I never got your name," she called after him, making him pause at the half-opened door, his hand on the latch, "To thank you. Properly."

He turned towards her. "Ruce," he answered. Then he turned back to the door and paused again, before turning back to her. His eyes were dead, not the lack-of-anything-living look that Fenris' eyes often took on, but the coldness and undemonstrativeness of someone who felt very little if any emotion. "And, yes."

"Yes, what? Oh!" an older mage had started entering the room, seeing as the door was open, but she stopped suddenly when she saw the Tranquil. She appeared flustered at the sight of him, her cheeks growing pink and her lips remaining shaped around her exclamation of surprise.

"I was just asking Ruce here if Vera was the best healer they had," Hrodwynn quickly answered, not so much because she thought Ruce might get in trouble for answering her question about how he was made Tranquil, as she feared she might get into trouble for asking it. "And that would be you, I presume."

"I…" Vera blinked, looking from Ruce who was now standing almost hidden behind the door, to Hrodwynn and the obviously wounded Fenris. Being reminded of the purpose for her being there helped her get herself back under control. "Er, yes, I am Vera. This must be the wounded elf I was told about. And you are?"

"Hrodwynn, and this is Fenris," she answered as Ruce slipped out and closed the door behind him. Maker, but that had been a close call. "So, um, you can heal him right? Fenris, I mean?"

"Of course," Vera hummed in a very maternal tone, already summoning her willpower.

Hrodwynn stood up to get a better view and watched her critically, not that the mage wasn't good—she felt Anders could have done a better job—but this was Fenris, her Fenris; she needed to know the job was being done properly.

The elderly mage didn't seem to mind, probably well-used to the scrutiny of templars, so it was Hrodwynn's turn to become surprised when she spoke. "I should tell you," Vera whispered, her voice barely floating over the sound of magic being performed, her lips moving so slightly she might not have said anything at all.

"Tell me what?" Hrodwynn asked, just as quietly.

"I don't know what happened to you, or why you two are here, or what the templars want with you, but…" she flicked her eyes towards the door, "You won't be leaving any time soon. Guards have been posted. Just outside. And ones not known for their… shall we say, niceness, if you get my meaning. Whatever you did, whatever sort of welcome you were expecting," she finished her spell and looked up at Hrodwynn, "You're prisoners, now."

Hrodwynn made a sour face and hissed, "I knew it! Hawke thought this Knight-Captain Curry was an honorable man, but I was afraid we couldn't trust him, any of the templars, not after Ser Alrik, it's too dangerous…"

"I wouldn't say Knight-Captain Cullen was dangerous, no," Vera stressed the correct name while at the same time trying to calm her, mostly so the templars outside wouldn't hear them. She gently settled Fenris down on his side, closing his eyes and letting him sleep on the cot, "Just… cold. Overly civil. Towards us mages, anyway. I wouldn't trust him. But I'm a mage, and you're not, are you?"

"No, I'm not. So…" Hrodwynn wasn't sure if she should press the issue, but she had to know, she had to understand what type of danger they were in, and just how much. She lifted Fenris' feet onto the bed and tried to innocently ask, "Um, this Captain Cuddly or whatever his name is, did he and Ser Alrik get along? Chum around? That sort of thing?"

Vera scoffed, short, and perhaps a little too loudly. "The Knight-Captain isn't chummy with anyone. But," she glanced over her shoulder at the door, "The other templars respect him, despite his rapid rise through the ranks. I think I should go. They'll be curious over what's taking me so long." She made to stand up, brushing off her robes and turning towards the door.

"Wait," Hrodwynn stood with her, still wanting a bit more information. She could allow that Hawke might have a good judge of the Captain's character—being an apostate mage himself, if HE trusted Cuddly… Curly… whatever his name was… And, sure, the Captain had sent a healer for Fenris, and the guards outside their door could be for their safety or benefit… But she had a sinking feeling the mage wasn't exaggerating. Especially if Sebastian told this Captain everything that happened in the tunnels beneath the Gallows. She felt the impulse, the need, just in case something were to happen to her and Fenris, to make sure the mages here knew they were safe, at least from Alrik. She wasn't sure if she could have told Ruce; she had no idea how a Tranquil might react to the news, especially one who had been made Tranquil by Alrik himself. But she knew she could trust a mage, particularly one who had just risked her own neck to warn them.

Hrodwynn took her arm and leaned in close to whisper, "Ser Alrik is dead."

The effect on the mage was incredible. Shock and surprise were the first to surface, followed swiftly by relief and an almost sinful joy. "How do you know?" Then there was a knock on the door, and one of the templar guards poked his head inside without waiting for permission. Quickly her features calmed, her emotions tucked safely behind a mask.

"I'm a healer myself," Hrodwynn answered, pretending the other woman had asked a different question while she tried to find a way to answer. "Oh, not a mage like you, but I dabble in potions and herbs and such. Learned from this guy down in Darktown, a healer himself, who helps the poor there." She paused to give a short, reassuring sort of laugh, "He's like a lantern in the darkness, he's so selfless of his time and his talents. You know what I mean?"

There was recognition in Vera's eyes; she knew exactly to whom Hrodwynn was referring. It had been a gamble, she supposed, but it did make sense that Anders had involved himself—perhaps even organized?—the mage underground. And Vera being a mage would probably know of the underground, and of the apostate mage in Darktown who heals the sick for little or no cost, and uses a lighted lantern to signal when it's safe to come to him. Hrodwynn had obliquely told her whom she could thank for Ser Alrik's death.

And right in front of a templar!

"Then, erm," the mage blinked and struggled a bit, trying not to let anything slip, "I'll leave the patient in your capable hands. He should sleep for a bit, and will be very weak from the blood loss upon waking, but other than that he will be just fine. Send for me, if you should need anything," she took Hrodwynn's hand and gave it a fierce squeeze, "ANYTHING at all."

And Vera had just offered to help them, should it come to that, right under the nose of the very same templar!

"If you're finished here," said templar finally spoke, "You should leave. The Knight-Captain wants them to get their rest. And you have other patients to tend to."

Vera didn't answer him, not verbally, but she did gracefully incline her head and turned away from Hrodwynn. The door closed after them, echoing loudly in the sparse room, leaving Fenris and Hrodwynn as recent and unwelcome additions to the decor. Letting loose a long sigh, she sat down on the floor and set her back against the frame of the bed to wait for him to wake up.

Alone again, Hrodwynn was left with nothing to do but worry. Worry about Hawke's ability to judge other people. Worry about what Anders might do to himself in the state he was in. Worry about what Sebastian was telling Captain Cuddly or, um, whatever-his-name-was. Worry about the templars just outside the door and what their presence could mean. Worry about Justice's apparently easy control over Anders. Worry about what the aftermath would be over the death of Ser Alrik.

Worry about how long it would be before Fenris woke up, and what he would remember, and what she should tell him, and what they would do then.

She turned to stare at the blissfully sleeping elf. Oh, Maker, but this was a mess. And so was his hair, still streaked and stained with red. She picked up the rag and began wiping away the last of the gore, using the task to keep her mind occupied and away from her worries.

At least for a while.

* * *

 

Anders stood in the shadows. He couldn't help himself. Garret had admonished him to stay near the boat, to keep out of the courtyard, to not go anywhere near the templars. Yet… Wynnie was there, somewhere, inside those Gallows. Surrounded by templars. And Garret—Maker preserve that man—he strode in there, as bold as brass, his staff barely disguised as a long-handled mace. Garret, a semi-open apostate himself, neither flaunting nor denying his talents as a mage, walking into the very heart of a Circle, standing toe-to-toe with a Knight-Captain, coldly and logically presenting evidence of corruption within their ranks.

Demanding an audience with the Knight-Commander herself.

Anders leaned his forehead against a stone column, biting his lip and muffling his groan of emotional pain. He was just on the edge of the courtyard not far from where the merchants set up their stalls, hidden from obvious sight, able to pass himself off as a customer perusing the wares, yet close enough to watch Garret meet up with that Chantry Brother and confront the templars. Over the noise and babble of the crowd, he could make out Garret's words—how his ears loved that voice!—and the Captain's high-handed replies.

Yes, their friends reached here alive.

Yes, he saw to it that their very best healer was sent to tend them.

Yes, he understood what the Brother said about Ser Alrik.

Yes, he was taking the allegations seriously and would look into the matter personally.

No, they very definitely could not have an audience with the Knight-Commander!

Anders wanted to laugh at Garret's demand, the bullocks that man had some days!

But he couldn't laugh, not right there, and not right then, perhaps never again. He couldn't laugh, due to the overwhelming anguish and guilt drowning his soul. It had been his fault, his plan, his responsibility, his paranoia, his desire, his choice…

A spark of color shone at the corner of his eye, something fleeting, something ethereal, something from a dream. But he knew—Blessed Andraste—he knew it was real. He slipped around the pillar to the other side, edging closer to the little party, wanting to hear more clearly. He knew he was risking exposure by pressing up so close, but he had to see her, he had to know she was alright.

There she was! Dark red hair glimmered like the deepest ruby in the bright sunlight of the courtyard. She turned her head slightly, and alabaster skin to rival any statue became a stark backdrop to a pair of flashing emerald orbs. That she walked shoulder-to-shoulder with that accursed elf for once was overlooked. Relief nearly swept his legs out from beneath him; Wynnie had not been harmed this time.

He steadied himself against the pillar and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled face, losing himself in thought for a moment. He hadn't been sure, couldn't remember clearly, his memories of that event wrapped in thick wool. He knew Justice had taken control of him again, and he had been helpless to prevent it. He had watched, from that tiny corner of his brain, while Justice killed with impunity. And nearly turned his Vengeance on an innocent, a persecuted mage, the very type of person he… Justice… they both wanted to help! Anders could still see her face. That poor mage, already threatened by templars, the evil she knew, she had come face to face with Justice, an evil she could never have imagined.

He had stared at the expression of horror and fear and resigned doom, remaining stained on her features long after he had wrested control back from the spirit. He had turned to look at Garret and the others, and thought he could see some of those same expressions on their faces. He couldn't help but imagine how they would look if Justice took his wrath out on them. And then he remembered—Justice already had. On Wynnie. His Wynnie.

The pain was unbearable. He could only do the one thing he always did when things got too unbearable; run away.

Yet no matter how fast he ran, or how far, or for how long, he knew he was doomed to forever bear the unbearable. His mistakes, his misassumptions, his fears, dogged his heels and barked at his conscience. Besides the near catastrophe from earlier that day, how many other tragedies lay on his shoulders, in his past but carried with him daily? How many more would he commit, before the final end of his days?

That's how far he'd gotten in his reasoning, by the time he reached his clinic. He knew then, he had only two choices: leave Kirkwall, or leave it all.

If only the Maker hadn't turned his eyes away from those who grew tired of life, of the struggle, of the injustices…

Yet if he were already doomed, for allowing a spirit to reside within him, then what did it matter? Hadn't the Maker already turned his back on him?

That was the state of mind Garret found him wallowing in, the indecision, to run away, or to run away.

What to keep, and what to throw away.

He had been searching through his things, discarding everything that didn't matter, everything that would not have left the slightest impact on the world a hundred years from now. Or a year. Or a month. Or even that day.

Yet Garret reminded him there were more things in this world, than those items he could physically touch. Like love. Love for Garret, obviously. Love for his fellow man, which drew him to opening his clinic. Love for those still suffering, still tormented, still trapped within their Circles, which encouraged him to develop the mage underground.

Love for Wynnie. Oh, what he felt towards her, was nothing like the love he felt for Garret. She was more like his little sister, a younger cousin, sometimes even like a daughter to him. She was his legacy, that part of him which would live on after he was gone. She was his impact on this world, an impact that would linger for a hundred years or more. And if he left her, if he did the unthinkable, such an act would hurt her deeply, far deeper than he could ever imagine, far deeper than he could ever have the right to. For her sake, he would endeavor to struggle on.

For her sake, he thought as he pulled his hand away and looked for her once more, for her sake he would risk his neck and sneak into a Circle courtyard just to make sure she was alright…

…and in chains! They had shackled her, the heavy iron attached to heavy chains, the weight throwing her off balance and making her stumble. How dare they! A surge of adrenaline, starting from his toes and swelling upwards towards his shoulders, falling down his arms to his fingertips as it filled his head and made his thoughts swim. Maker, the templars had her in chains! He'd kill them, destroy them, every last one, no matter the cost…

With a strength he never knew he had, he pushed Justice back into the recesses of his mind, maintaining control, pushing away the blinding rage. Garret was there. Garret would make things right. He would trust Garret. He had to. Using another pillar to block their view, he slipped close enough to clearly hear their conversation.

"Why the fuck are they wearing chains?"

"Not exactly the words I would have used," the Captain agreed dryly, turning to fix his hardest hazel stare at the pair of templars flanking Fenris and Hrodwynn, "But all the same, I would like to hear your answer."

Both guards swallowed, one of them shifting and volunteering to answer for them both, "But, ser… they came here… from the tunnels… and Ser Alrik was just found down there, murdered… we thought they were prisoners…"

"You what?" Cullen interrupted him.

Sebastian cleared his throat, "It seems you have some issue with discipline within the ranks."

Cullen gave a curt nod. "Indeed. Excuse me while I sort this out. You, soldier," he returned his attention to the pair of templars, "Both of you. Must I remind you, it is not your place to think. It is your place to follow orders. And I did not give the order for these two to be treated as prisoners, neither detained in the dungeon nor shackled with chains. In fact, I named these two guests. I sent a healer to tend to them. Does that sound like they're prisoners to you? Was there anything in my orders that would give you leave to treat them in this manner?"

"Yes, Ser! I mean, no, Ser!"

Cullen leaned in a little closer, but before he could dress-down the soldiers any further, a merry little laugh, something close to a giggle, rang through the courtyard. Anders immediately knew it was Wynnie, one of her staged laughs, but it reassured him just the same.

"Oh, don't take it out on him, Captain Curly, no harm's been done," she took half a step forward, more to draw everyone's attention to her and the little bit of showing-off she was about to do. "It's not as if these things were doing any good, anyway."

Quick as a lightning spell, she crossed her wrists before her, one over the other, her fingers fluttering slightly. There was a very distinctive metal clicking sound, and the next moment the shackles were off her wrists, dangling open at the ends of the chain she held. She pushed the metal towards the Captain and quipped, "Here you go. One slightly used pair of shackles, just like new."

There was a subtle flash of light blue, nearly lost within the bright sunlight unless you knew to look for it, and the shackles that had been around Fenris' wrists fell to the ground with a loud clatter.

"Oops. Suppose you'll want these back, too." She bent over to pick up the other pair, still closed and locked tight, and passed them, too, to the surprised Captain.

He examined the useless locks while he thought of something to say. "Quite an eclectic group of friends you have, Ser Hawke." He tried to act unconcerned as he passed the shackles to the red-faced guard.

"It's a hobby," he shrugged with affected unconcern. "Some people collect thimbles. Others collect spoons. I collect friends."

"Yes, well," Cullen cleared his throat, "If it makes you happy, I suppose."

"Now, Knight-Captain," Hawke turned on the charm, along with a dangerous undercurrent that would be lost on lesser men, "I trust that my friends and I are free to go. And that we can trust you to handle this investigation."

Cullen did not miss the implied threat. He straightened his shoulders, affixing his unyielding hazel eyes to Hawke's warm amber. "I have given you my word, Ser Hawke, something I do not do lightly. Ser Alrik's death will be looked into, as will his activities over the past several months. And," he paused to swing his glare towards the templars who had put the chains on Hrodwynn and Fenris, "And all those who may have assisted in any unsanctioned rites, or knew of said illegal actions and did not report them. If these charges are true, then there are more templars who need to be brought to justice."

Anders nearly blanched at the unfortunate choice of words. Fearing what might come next, fearing he might get caught eavesdropping, he turned and raced back to the ferry.

It seemed the others felt the same awkwardness. Fenris grew even more statue-like, Hrodwynn's smile faded from a glib grin to a tight grimace, Sebastian opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, and Hawke's free hand felt for his staff as if seeking reassurance. "Ah, very good, then," he gave a slight cough. "Excuse me. Well, we shall leave you to it. Good day, Captain. Come along, everyone, let's stop pestering the nice templar and head back to the ferry. You might like to know, Hrodwynn, that your uncle," Hawke stressed the word as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and steered her away, "Came with me to collect you."

"My uncle…?" she repeated, confused for a moment. Then it dawned on her whom he meant, the only person he could mean, "Oh! You mean And—ah," she glanced nervously over her shoulder, but thankfully the Captain had turned his attention to his men, "…Andy! Uncle Andy! He's here? You, ah, you were able to find him? Is he alright?" Oh, Maker, all the things she wanted to say, to ask, to know…

"He's fine," Hawke told her gently, now that they were safely away from the templars, "A little upset, but nothing we can't help him through. He's waiting for us, down by the ferry. And… I'm talking to your back," he sighed, watching her race off. He supposed he should have expected the rudeness, but he did have hope that someday she'd learn to be nice to him.

He let her go and turned his attention to the quiet conversation, or half-conversation, Sebastian and Fenris were having behind him. The two of them were dancing around a subject without naming it, and without realizing how well their voices carried to Hawke's ears.

Sebastian started, "So, um, you didn't say anything about… um, anything… anyone…?"

"I was in chains," Fenris answered, "Do you think they would have believed me if I told them?"

"You could have been giving them information in exchange for your release."

"To what end, exactly," Fenris paused, his tone changing into something husky. "I'd be free, but at the cost of losing her love, and his trust. Besides, you had the better opportunity, talking straight to the Knight-Captain himself."

"Yes, well, er," Sebastian coughed, "I suppose it simply didn't come up."

"Really," the sarcasm dripped like thick syrup from Fenris' voice as he rolled his eyes. "Do you mean to say, he never once asked how you came to be in the tunnels, or how you came to suspect Ser Alrik…"

"I didn't want to give away too much," Sebastian interrupted him, fearing their conversation was getting too loud. "Some things are hard to believe, unless you learn them for yourself. Besides, he should be able to discover it during the course of his investigation."

Fenris scoffed, "And then you wouldn't have to feel guilty for betraying Hawke, or one of his friends."

Sebastian glanced guiltily at Hawke's back, but the mage seemed to be oblivious to their conversation. He gave a heavy, long-suffering sigh. "You know one of us… someone… some day… will have to out him. However much it might hurt Hawke and Hrodwynn. They cannot continue to deny it forever… the danger he is… to himself… to others…"

"He knows it," Fenris defended Hawke, also staring hard at his back, almost wishing he'd turn around the catch them plotting against the man he loved. "And I think she's finally starting to see what I've seen all along—what we've seen, that he's an abomination, a maleficar, and needs to be put down. And though I would gladly do the deed myself, I have no desire to see her hurt. And it would hurt her. Deeply. Hawke, as well."

They turned around the last corner and saw Hrodwynn and Anders, embracing near the docks, the woman fighting back the tears, the man holding on to too many emotions. Sebastian slowed their progress, allowing Hawke to pull ahead, "So what are we to do, you and I, trapped within this moral dilemma?"

"You may be trapped, but I am not. I know there's no need to turn him over to the templars, or even to destroy him ourselves." He was watching Anders closely, studying him, searching for any sign of Justice. The man's face was flushed, as if his heart was racing, which was quite understandable, considering how close they were to the Gallows. But there were emotions on Anders' face, emotions far too easy to read: the fear, the doubt, the anxiety, the rage, the hurt, the unquenchable need… "He will do that himself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, this was mostly an Anders' chapter, and typically speaking, Fenris fans are /NOT/ Anders fans, them being bitter rivals and all…
> 
> But he is very angsty, you gotta give him that. I just wanted an opportunity to explore his angst before, well, the inevitable *shrugs*
> 
> And—it was an excuse to slip Cullen into this story, however briefly :'D


	25. The Pain of Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, my dears. Due to a veritable cesspool of conditions (staffing issues at work, overtime, financial difficulties on my end) I haven't had any time to even take a "mental health" day, much less sit down and write and fantasize over Fenris…
> 
> I know this chapter is long overdue, and I'm sorry. I hope it's worth the wait.

"You called him… what?"

Varric was chuckling, unable to help himself. Hawke had brought everyone round to the Hanged Man for drinks, though Varric suspected it was in part to force everyone to accept that Anders had been right—for once—and they all had been fools to doubt him. Still, the five of them told a good story, and he quickly found himself carried away.

"Well," Hrodwynn had the decency to allow a faint tint of pink to blemish her cheeks, "He has all that, I don't know, curly messy bit on the top of his head," her quick fingers flickered over the top of her own scalp in emphasis, "Kind of hard to ignore. And I couldn't remember his name, other than it started with a 'C,' but at least I remembered he was a Captain."

Varric roared with more laughter, slapping the table with his palm. "Oh, Maker, but I've got to remember that one. 'Captain Curly'…" He slowed down to a chuckle, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes, as he asked, "Then what happened? I imagine Hawke and Anders didn't take it well, seeing the two of you brought out in chains."

"I was down by the ferry," Anders quickly reminded everyone, his tone of voice a bit desperate and rushed. So far he'd managed to keep anyone, especially Hrodwynn, from finding out about his sortie into the Gallows' Courtyard and subsequent eavesdropping. He didn't want to think about what she would say if she found out about the risk he had taken.

Or what Garret would say, for that matter.

Hawke's eyes narrowed a little at Anders' forceful statement, but he took up his narrative once more. "Right. It was Sebastian and I in the courtyard, talking with the Knight-Captain. All three of us were quite surprised when Hrodwynn and Fenris were brought out to us under guard, but I think the Captain was the most upset. He was starting to give those two soldiers quite a dressing down, when Hrodwynn defused the situation. She started to laugh, a bit staged…"

She stuck her tongue out at him, but it was mostly humorous—only a little bit spiteful. Honest.

"…and picked the locks on her cuffs in under five seconds."

"Two!" she argued, feeling slighted by Hawke's diminishing of her talents, and the way he brushed aside her taunt.

"Who's telling this story?" he reminded her, but her sullen pout wouldn't leave her lips. He could sense Anders shifting in his seat, about to do or say something in her favor. And Varric's indulgent chortle did nothing to help his side of things. Knowing he was outnumbered, he gave in a bit gracelessly, "Oh, very well, in under two seconds. Happy?" he ended with a little hum. Seeing Hrodwynn smile and ease back, he knew he could take up his narrative once more. "Cool as a summer breeze, she handed the chains over to the Captain, stating, 'Here you go. One pair of slightly used shackles, just like new.'"

Varric gave up and swiped a finger at his eyes. "Andraste's tits! What I wouldn't give to have seen the look on his face."

Hawke nodded agreement, giving Fenris a sly glance as he added, "It was nothing compared to when Fenris invoked his lyrium and slipped right out of his cuffs, letting them fall to the cobblestones with a clatter that was hard to ignore. Hrodwynn scooped them up, as if they were a handkerchief someone had dropped, and handed them back to Cullen, still fully closed."

"And what did he say?" Varric pressed, eager for the rest of the tale.

Hawke leaned back in his seat, a little theatrically, but Hrodwynn wasn't the only one who like to put on airs. He buffed the back of his nails on the front of his robes, managing to sound quite pleased with himself as he answered, "He professed admiration for the eclectic group of friends I collected. I told him it was my little hobby, you know, like how some people collect spoons or thimbles or the like. I simply collect people."

Varric felt like he was going to piss himself. The audacity of the man! The bullocks! His cheeks burned from all the laughing he'd been doing, there was a stitch in his side that made him wonder if he'd cracked a rib, and a tear had managed to escape his notice to dampen the side of his face. "You… you… Maker's breath, Hawke… fuck…"

Aveline cleared her throat and adjusted her posture, drawing attention to herself. "Then he just… what… let all of you go?" she asked, since Varric was unable to speak coherently.

"It wasn't as if he could keep us there," Hawke shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure the thought crossed his mind, since we were involved in the murder, er, death of one of his templars. But he had his hands full already, what with two insubordinate soldiers in need of discipline. And then there was the investigation he was going to have to conduct into Ser Alrik's illegal actions. No, he chose not to make an issue of us, or the manner of Ser Alrik's death, and I chose to leave before any one of us gave him a reason to change his mind." He tilted around Anders so he could clearly see the person sitting on the other side.

"Don't look at me," Hrodwynn protested, leaning back to try to get out of his sight, holding up her hands, her bright green eyes wide and innocent. "I behaved myself!"

"Calling him Captain Curly and picking the locks of your shackles is not behaving yourself," Hawke countered.

"You're the one who threatened him," she fired back, "And doubted his word."

"Please, both of you, don't start, for my sake, please?" Anders pleaded. From his position between them, he put a hand up to either side, in front of each of their faces, as if he could physically block the sounds from their mouths. He had a brief twinge of sympathy for how she must feel every time he and Fenris went at each other, and it was all he could do to keep himself from looking at the elf sitting on the far side of her. Instead he forced himself to stare at the surface of the table, a nice and safe view. "What's important is that Ser Alrik was stopped. Permanently. No more mages will unjustly be made tranquil against their will."

Hrodwynn closed her mouth and stopped baiting Hawke, deciding she couldn't argue with that. Though it appeared Fenris might, his hatred of mages so deeply ingrained it was an immutable part of his nature. She could feel him next to her, taking a deep breath, sitting up slightly taller as he prepared to launch himself into an argument against Anders. Though she had no idea what in Anders' statement he could have found fault with, she elbowed him—not harshly, but not gently, either.

Miraculously, he also closed his mouth and held his tongue. It seemed, for this evening—this one single evening—everyone was willing to call a truce. Or at least the possibility and potential was there.

"You're right, Blondie," Varric finally found his voice, also sensing the fragile ceasefire of verbal hostilities and taking as much advantage from it as he could. "Hawke's had yet another of his strange and death-defying adventures, did a good deed for the downtrodden, and," he leaned forward and gave a quick wink to Hawke, "Undoubtedly has lined his pockets a little, too. Which reminds me; who's up for a game of Wicked Grace?"

"The real reason Varric's glad for your latest adventure," Isabela hummed, but she was already pulling out her purse and plopping it on the table, "He wants some of your booty for himself."

"Why, Isabela, I'd never consider it," Varric denied, already shuffling the cards, "At least, not where Anders could catch us."

Isabela rolled her eyes, "That's not what I… oh, never mind!"

Most everyone at the table was laughing, seeing as how Isabela got trapped by one of her own jokes for once.

"Oh, that's something dirty again," Merril, who was smiling though not laughing, leaned across the table to ask Hrodwynn, "What was it, exactly?"

Hrodwynn had leaned forward to hear Merril, and to answer, but before she could say anything, the loud and sharp slapping of a palm against the tabletop made her look up in surprise. Sebastian was sitting near the far corner, at an angle to her. He had been quietly staring at her through Hawke's whole narrative, but when she leaned forwards, when her short hair flopped down to cover a side of her face, he had been startled. "You are familiar to me, dear lady," he all but exclaimed. "Not you, personally, but a cousin of yours, perhaps? Or your mother? An aunt?"

A cold chill swept over her, like a trickle of ice water running down her spine beneath her tunic. Merril and her question forgotten, Hrodwynn leaned back to fix the Brother with a hard stare. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, more than a little cross. She liked the way the evening was going so far, and was looking forward to a hand or two of Wicked Grace, and then maybe who knows—once she and Fenris got home that night. But every time Sebastian called her a lady… For some reason, it set her teeth on edge. The warm feeling of camaraderie, the afterglow of an adrenaline rush, the humor of the verbal battle between Varric and Isabela—all of that was gone now in the face of his persistent pestering.

"I've seen that before," he gestured, sweeping up and down her whole form. "Back in Starkhaven."

"Doubt it. I've lived in Kirkwall for as long as I can remember," she answered, honestly, if a little misleadingly, through her still clenched teeth.

"Yes, yes, I know that," he waved her words aside, ignorant of the sore topic he was treading over with his steel-plated boots. "But surely you have a mother. Or other feminine relatives. And the way you posed just now, with your hair looking a little longer, I'm sure I've seen that before. Perhaps at Court. Do you have a relation—a female relation—who's a peer?"

There it was again, that insistence that he knew her, or knew of her, or had some undiscovered clue to her past, a past that she had only just begun to come to terms with knowing that she would never know it. The coldness she felt a moment before was replaced by heat. A wave of anger, unlike anything she'd ever felt before, swelled up inside her, boiling like hot water. She wouldn't have been surprised if, at that moment, someone told her there was steam coming from her ears. "I've heard enough of this," she muttered, standing up and pushing herself away from the table. Then she rounded on Sebastian, so suddenly and so fiercely, that it made him instinctively flinch away. "I am no lady! I never have been. I never will be. And I have no family! No relations—female or otherwise! I am Hrodwynn of Kirkwall. Nothing more!" Her hands pointed and slashed in emphasis, striking the air with a killer's intent.

After her words, after her movements, there was an unnatural stillness from the others at the table. She didn't take the time to notice, too caught up in fighting back the pain and the false hopes his words had almost created within her. He was a prince, after all, and the only legitimate heir of an entire city-state, now that the rest of his family had been killed. So it was reasonably feasible… entirely possible… all but assured… that he might actually recognize her as belonging to some other nobleman's family…

She needed air.

She needed to move.

She needed to get out of there!

Unaware of her self, she raced out of the Hanged Man and into the evening.

"You bastard," Anders hissed, struggling to stand, "Don't you ever leave off?"

Surprisingly, it was Fenris' heavy and immovable hand on his shoulder, and not Hawke's insistent clutching at his sleeve, that made Anders sit back down. Fenris was already on his feet, calm and cold as the lyrium seared bone-deep into his flesh. Once he made sure that Anders would remain sitting, he turned to the still startled Starkhaven prince.

Sebastian stuttered, cowed beneath the force of his dead stare. "Honestly, Fenris, I had no intention of offending her. Ever. I… I thought she'd be flattered… at first… my calling her a lady… a show of respect… maybe a little flirtatious… but then… just now…" he swallowed, gathering his courage, and made himself squarely face the silently smoldering elf. "She IS familiar to me; I cannot—will not—deny it. She must have familial ties to some noble family…"

"She may have, once, but it doesn't matter now," he cut over Sebastian's words like his greatsword cut through flesh. "Hrodwynn has amnesia; something you can never empathize with. She is unaware of her past, of anything before her arrival here in Kirkwall, some eight or so years ago. Her memory is gone, and because of that, she has no family, no ties to any other city. Wherever she may have come from, Kirkwall is now her home. And she's fought long and hard to make a life for herself here, a good life, a life she can live." He loomed threateningly over the Brother, "And I will protect her life with my dying breath. Understood."

It wasn't a question; it was a command. Sebastian swallowed yet again and nodded, but Fenris wasn't fooled. He could see, he could see in those merry blue eyes that Sebastian wasn't going to leave this alone. He couldn't. It simply wasn't in his nature.

But, hopefully, he had made enough of an impression to calm the Brother down for a few weeks at least.

"Excuse me," Fenris nodded to the table in general, and left to follow after Hrodwynn. Before he reached the door he could hear, barely discernible over the sounds of the tavern—the off-key music, the drunks, the activities taking place upstairs—but Varric was smoothly and almost successfully easing past the awkward moment and dealing out the first hand.

* * *

It was a chilly, cloudy night in Kirkwall. Chilly in Fenris' opinion, at any rate. Tevinter was further north than the Free Marches, and had a much warmer climate; he'd never seen snow until he came this far south and to the mountains. Yet he knew there were colder regions even further south, with even taller mountains, and places where the snow never melted—as impossible as it was to envision that!

So, maybe, just maybe, Kirkwall wasn't quite so chilly after all.

He would be glad, however, to get home and inside and stand before the hearth in his room. He rubbed a hand along his arm, feeling the gooseflesh pebble his skin, and hastened his steps.

He hadn't been able to find Hrodwynn, something that had left him feeling more than a little disquiet. Though it was a bit early yet for the cutthroats and rapists to be out, in her current state of mind, he wasn't sure if she would have enough sense to make her way home, or if she'd end up back in Darktown and Anders' clinic out of some long-buried force of habit.

Or, Maker forbid, somewhere else entirely, somewhere lost, somewhere she might not be able to find her way back from.

She was almost as touchy about her amnesia as he was about his; a fact he reluctantly allowed. And the way Sebastian kept calling her lady, the way it irritated her, and her strong reaction to Sebastian's suggestion that he might know her family, a noble family… Fenris wasn't sure what would make her more upset; finding out she wasn't of noble birth after all of Sebastian's assurances, or finding out she was but remaining unable to remember it for herself.

He could well imagine her pain, her angst, her struggle against false hope—and her inability to prevent said false hope from finding purchase within her soul. The despair she must feel, the impotence, the anger…

And she had raced from the tavern, without him, without telling anyone where she was going, probably without knowing herself what she was doing. In her frame of mind, she could be anywhere, about to do anything, and he was not there to stop her, to help her, to love her.

He reached the door of his mansion and stopped dead in his tracks. The door was ajar, not by much, but enough to alert him to the presence of someone within. Daring to hope himself, sending a quick prayer to the Maker for a miracle, he reached out and pushed the door open with his fingertips.

It was dark inside, dark and quiet, and very much as he and Hrodwynn had left it the day before. He craned his neck around the wooden portal, but everything appeared as it should be. There was a chest in the corner of the foyer, the lid ajar as they had left it, a few of Hrodwynn's throwing knives lying unmolested and in plain view. Stepping inside he spied their cats, Cassia and Felinus, sitting on a table near a window, Cassia calmly cleaning her face, Felinus standing guard over her. He turned and fixed Fenris with a stare as he came into view, but assured that Fenris was allowed in his home, Felinus turned back to wait for Cassia to finish cleaning herself so they could go and catch another mouse or two.

Well, Fenris thought to himself, if they were unconcerned, then he could be, too. At least as far as an unwanted intruder went. But if it hadn't been an enemy who left the door open, then it had to be Hrodwynn who awaited him within the dusty and disused manor, hadn't it? Her, or some other friend. "Any clue would be helpful, and very much appreciated," he spoke softly to the pair of cats.

This time, Cassia stopped her licking to stare. Fenris sighed, reached into one of his pouches, and took out a rabbit haunch. It was the last bit of food rations leftover from the adventure involving Ser Alrik, a bit cold now, but he wasn't going to be eating it. "A bribe, then. Or an exchange, if you prefer. This bit of meat, for telling me who it is waiting for me upstairs."

Cassia lifted her triangular pink little nose and smelled the tasty morsel. Cats were intelligent creatures. They understood far more than they let on, and only concerned themselves about important matters—not the trivial stuff that people liked to worry about. Fenris should very well know who it was who had stumbled in here and staggered blindly up the stairs, and he could just as easily, perhaps far more easily, go upstairs and find out for himself. But if he was willing to feed them for information he was too lazy to learn himself, well, then… Agreeing to his terms, she let out a meow of consent.

Then she swatted Felinus across the snout, Not hard, and not with her claws certainly, but enough to get his attention and convey what she wished for him to do. Felinus gave her a sulky look, but did as she commanded. In the graceful and fluid motion of all cats, like a little river of fur, he jumped down from the table and wound his way through a maze of furniture until he reached the base of the stairs. He paced back and forth a few times, gave Fenris a mewl, then promptly sat in a very unconcerned manner and scrubbed a paw across his face.

Fenris knelt down in front of Hrodwynn's cat. "So, I take it you're telling me that it is, in fact, Hrodwynn upstairs. Otherwise you wouldn't be so blasé. Am I correct?" he gave a small laugh at himself, not sure if it came from the relief of finding her safe and sound, or over his talking to a cat as if it could clearly understand him. He was saved from considering an answer by Cassia coming up and rubbing herself against his thigh. "You're right, it's time I held up my end of the bargain, isn't it. Here you go." He set the haunch on the floor between the two cats, and left them to their easy meal.

His motions as fluid as the cats', he stood and started up the stairs, his bare feet silent on the wooden steps, his body habitually avoiding any of the boards that creaked. His hand reached out as he neared the top, his fingertips brushing the finial atop the railing, only enough of a touch to orient himself in the semi-darkness and allow him to steer unerringly down the hallway towards his bedchamber.

Again the door was cracked, but this time he could see light coming from within. Flickering light, soft and muted, warm and welcoming. His heart pounding, though not from exertion, he reached the portal and pushed it open to reveal…

Hrodwynn was sitting on the couch before the hearth, her knees bent, the heels of her feet braced on front edge of the surface, and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She had removed her boots and belts and anything else hard and unyielding, even untucking her shirt to let the dark red fabric pool and puddle on the cushions around her hips. She looked so small sitting there, so tightly curled up, so vulnerable, so like a young child. Her face was in profile, chin atop one of her knees, her eyes gazing unseeingly at the flames in the hearth, her cheeks still damp from earlier tears, though now it appeared she may have grown bored with crying. Fenris chastised himself, thinking of all the time he'd wasted looking for her elsewhere, when he should have been here, when he should have helped her weather the storm of emotions, when he should have held her and absorbed her tears.

Efficiently and quietly, with minimal movement so as not to disturb her, Fenris slipped out of his own belts and buckles, setting aside his weapons and armor until he wore nothing more than his vest-like tunic and leggings. But he didn't move towards her. Though his arms ached to feel her, though his chest throbbed with love, though his legs twitched with the denied steps—he remained standing a few paces from her.

He was at a loss, even more than she, over what he should do.

He knew, he understood, what it was like, what she was experiencing, the impotence and futility over her missing past. Unfortunately, that empathy gave him no insight over what his next action should be. Even after all the common ground they shared, they were also opposites in many ways. Where she had stormed out of the Hanged Man in a full fury, swept along by waves of emotion, he was not so overt himself. He preferred to keep his pain inside, close to the vest, where only he could see it, he could feel it, he could know of it. But not everyone had his self-control, had his training, had his aversion to allowing people into his personal life.

Especially Hrodwynn. She needed assurance. Companionship. Love. Understanding. Validation. Things he had no idea how to give. He could fight against demons and darkspawn and dragons to save her, but not depression. He was ill equipped and lacked experience when it came to personal interactions. And in his indecision, in his hesitation, in his ignorance, all he could do was stand there and breathe…

"Hrodwynn?"

A fresh tear quickly formed and dropped from the corner of one eye, and she answered in a voice as small and fragile as she looked, "'lo, Fenris." She didn't move, either. She didn't rise up to greet him. She didn't turn to look at him. Instead she left him adrift, standing off to her side, while she stared into the flickering flames.

Normally, she wouldn't want anyone to see her cry. She had left the Hanged Man before the others could see how deeply Sebastian had hurt her. But here, in this chamber, where they had shared so much, where he had finally allowed another—Hrodwynn alone—a glimpse into the dark corners of his soul. Here she knew it would be safe to cry, to allow all the emotions to surface and run their course. Because of this pain they shared, this frustration, this dearth.

This vacuum called amnesia.

"It… hurts," she started, brokenly, her words all but swallowed by her pain, "It… really hurts… actually, physically hurts… not knowing… wanting to so badly… I can't… there's nothing… there…"

All too intimately he knew that feeling, that pain, that unending suffering, that relentless torture. His own past was a mystery, a darkened mirror, shattered bits of memory flashing in the corner of his eye. Yet he didn't know how he should respond, what he should say, what he should do. All he could think of was to stand there and sigh into the semi-dark room, "I know."

"I've tried to move on," she continued, beginning to feel the catharsis of talking about her pain, "I really have… to accept… that I'll never… never know… to leave it… leave it all… every bit of it… behind me…"

The false hope, the childish belief, the vain dreams, the delusional self-lies. There was another flicker of sympathetic vibrations as a hint of memory tickled the back of his mind, and was quickly squelched by his iron will. He had to focus, now, focus on Hrodwynn and her forgotten past and her pain. "I know," his hand clenched into a fist and he had to press it against his thigh to quell the shaking.

"But he… I… he won't… I've tried,", she paused to scrub the back of her hand against her cheek, "I've tried… to get him… him to… stop…"

"I know you have," he agreed, his voice almost a coo, gentle and soothing, as his legs swayed, almost buckling, his need to hold her was so great, his insecurity keeping him in check.

"He won't… I can't make… make him leave off!"

Fenris saw an opening and took it. "I'll handle Sebastian," he vowed, his voice sounding terrible with dreadful threat and confidence in his ability to fulfill it. "In fact, he won't speak to you about this again. Ever. He knows what will happen should he try. I've taken care of it for you."

Her head snapped up, her long-buried pain over her forgotten past drowned out by the fresher pain of her sharply wounded pride. In a flash she was on her feet, fists clenched at her sides, eyes flashing with green lightning, lifting her chin to stare at him accusingly, "I can fight my own battles!"

There it was, that fire, that spark, that he loved, that he missed, that he needed to set his own life aflame. Another shattered shard of memory flashed into his thoughts, but he shoved it away with a pant and a twitch. He couldn't let himself get distracted right now. Hrodwynn needed him too much.

"Don't I know it," he placated her, or tried to, without sounding too condescending. Hesitantly he began to approach her. "Your tongue and wit are as sharp as your knives. I should know; I've been on the receiving end of your ire for years, and for good reason." He reached her, at long last, and put his hands chastely on her shoulders, holding her gaze as he continued, "But I love you, and I won't let anyone hurt the woman I love and get away with it. Sebastian will leave this whole idea—leave you—alone now; you have my word on it. He swallowed, staring into her green eyes bright with tears, and vowed, "Amatus."

No one else knew these pet names they had for each other, these quiet utterances that were deeply personal, deeply private, gentle whispers that told each other they were still loved, still needed, still there. And that together, no matter what happened, no matter what may come, together they would survive it. In one simple action, with one small breath, he unknowingly and without understanding did the one thing that would make everything alright.

Her eyes softened, her brows curved, her head tilted, her lips parted as she acknowledged, "Fen."

The word fell from her lips to land at his feet. From there it entered him, rising up along his bones, filling his body with warmth, from his feet to his knees, to his hips, to his guts, to his chest, to his shoulders, to his head. He had never known this side of love. Yes, he had obsessed over her, ran the gauntlet from wondering what she was doing to worrying about her getting into trouble without him being there to protect her. And he had fought for her, bled for her, risked his life for her. He had even—finally—made love to her, exploring her body, awakening her desires, touching her emotionally and physically, from without and within.

But nothing had prepared him for this, this bottomless depth of warm strength, this quiet assurance, this unconditional acceptance—both he of her, and she of him.

Maker, what he wouldn't do for this woman.

_What he wouldn't do for them…_

This time he shook off the dim reflection with a small sound, something akin to a painful sigh, or an anguished murmur. A cool hand with small, quick fingers stroked his cheek, bringing his eyes back into focus. "Fenris?"

"Amatus." he immediately he responded, unwilling to give her any time to wonder over his odd actions. He took her hand in his, holding it in place, entwining their fingers; he couldn't bring them any closer together without phasing. He shifted his face around, pressing his lips into her palm, determined to distract her, and himself, from both his troubles and hers.

After their first, and only, night together, they hadn't had another chance to explore the fine art of making love. They'd either been inconvenienced by one of Hawke's 'little' jobs, or by the chaperones inherent to such jobs, or by Hrodwynn's own natural cycle. Tonight was the first night in almost two weeks that an opportunity had presented itself. If he could move her past her pain.

She seemed willing, perhaps feeling the need as much as he, her fingers squeezing his as he continued to kiss her palm. After all, she'd only ever done this once before, and that experience had ended awkwardly. Tonight, he vowed, he would do things right. They would do things right. Tonight, he would divert them from their shared pain. Tonight they would willingly give up their forgotten pasts. Tonight would be only for…

_"…Leto…?"_

"…Fen…" Hrodwynn hummed, having closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation of his warm lips across her cool skin. She didn't see the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. She didn't see the way his lips pulled back in a grimace. She didn't see his hand begin to tremble slightly.

But she felt it, all of it, from her fingertips to her palm to her wrist. A tiny furrow formed between her brows as he opened her eyes to look at him. "What…?"

"Shh…" he silenced her quickly, eager to hide his symptoms and resume these fragile beginnings of making love. And he could do it, too. He could deny himself, his self—desires and needs and feelings and pain. He had done so quite often, all the time in fact, while he'd been a slave for Danarius. It wouldn't be all that hard, to resume that state of mind, to set aside his own necessities for another. Especially for a woman he cared about…

He headed it off before it could gain a foothold this time, whatever 'it' was that was plaguing his mind. He let go of Hrodwynn's hand to wrap his arms around her, to meld her body against his. His fingers stroked her spine through the silky fabric of her tunic, cool and soft like her skin. He felt her shudder, watched as her head lolled back, exposing the tender flesh of her neck, a vein throbbing with her quickening pulse.

He pounced on it, like his namesake.

Hrodwynn gasped, amazed that after everything that had happened that day, the battles and dangers and embarrassment and emotional pain, that she could feel so needy, so willing, so wanton—and so quickly. Yes, she could admit to herself that her experience was limited, that she really had no way of knowing if this was normal or unusual… but, really, she asked herself, did it matter? If she wanted him…

If he wanted her…

If they—finally—had this opportunity…

She felt his lips worm their way beneath the collar of her tunic, his long fingers wrap around her ass and lift with almost bruising strength, the bulge in his leggings line up with the heat spilling out from her as her legs sought purchase around his waist. Blessed Andraste, but this felt good. Right. Natural. Like coming home, coming to a place where you know you are safe, secure, belonging.

Loved.

He raised her above him, even higher, and mouthed her breast through the fabric of her tunic. She gasped, her heart beginning to race, and scrambled to keep her purchase while trying not to drag herself out of reach. He staggered a few steps, thrown a little off balance by her furtive movements. Clumsily he slammed into a wall at an angle, abrading the back of his knuckles and bruising the side of her hip, but he shuffled and shifted their bodies around until her back was braced against it.

She had given a grunt, not because she was hurt, but from the force of their impact whooshing the air from her lungs. Her head spinning, she took ahold of his tunic, desperate to remove it. The fabric was too strong to rip or tear, but her quick fingers found a few of the toggles and began loosening them. Frustrated with the slow progress, however, she started tugging on it, peeling it off like a second skin, pulling it up towards his armpits. He paused, panting, feeling his pores explode in sweat—Hrodwynn wasn't the only one desperate for a release—and broke off his mouthing to allow her to finish pulling the Spirit Hide up and over his head.

The last time, the only time, they'd lain together, she hadn't paid his markings any attention. She was one of the few who had never drawn attention to the lyrium twisting and marring his flesh. And he loved her for that. Tonight was no different. Her hands roamed over his skin, either ignorant or discourteous of the lyrium. Rather she searched for those places she remembered from before, how he'd suck in a breath when her palm brushed across a nipple. How he'd twitch and then hold very still when her fingers filled the furrows between his ribs, as if he was extremely ticklish and trying to hide it.

How he would involuntarily buck into her when she explored lower, between the lanes of lyrium that outlined the V-cut of muscles and drew one's attention downward and central. Her thumbs pressed there, kneading into him, needing him.

Again he had to pull off his torture of her body through the fabric to gasp, "Amatus!"

"Fen…" Her voice was breathy, lost within an unfathomable ocean of emotions. Yet her actions spoke louder than any words. Her fingers left off their torment and instead gripped his shoulders, bracing and holding herself between him and the wall while she angled her hips.

"Fasta vass," he panted, feeling his head pound, his blood race, his body become slick with sweat. He needed this just as much as she, but it was hard, so hard, almost too hard… The mental concentration required to keep the shattered shards at bay… to ignore what was wrong and focus on what was right… to try to force his body to, um, rise up to the occasion…

It was no good, however, not with the two of them pressed up against the wall, rough and feral and desperate. Stifling the growl of frustration within his chest, he tried for a change of scene. He grabbed her ass once more and spun them around, easily carrying her weight despite them being nearly the same size, his long-fibered muscles surprisingly stronger than they appeared. He dumped their entangled bodies onto the bed, dragging them across the mattress until they reached the middle. Then he raised himself on his arms and loomed over her, staring down at her in the soft firelight…

_…the hair spread out around the face was red, but too dark a red. And the eyes should be a gentler green, not so bright, but just as wet with tears. And her skin was far too pale, not the swarthiness of someone who liked to play outside in the courtyard…_

"Fen?" she queried, sensing without being able to see, to even be sure, but on some deeper level, instinctively knowing that something was wrong.

Her voice brought him back, but he couldn't answer, couldn't allow himself to admit defeat, to admit to his pain when her's was so great, to admit to his shortcomings when she needed him most. But neither could he continue this way, feeling and denying, passionate and cold, knowing while not wanting to remember. It was obvious to him now: he couldn't be with her and be WITH her, he couldn't love her and make love to her.

He couldn't let himself feel, lest it open up the door to his past and taint their lovemaking with his pain.

Whatever damage it may cause him, whatever the scars, whatever the cost, he knew what he had to do. Without a fight, without even a whimper, he shut out his own desires and passion and emotion. Mechanically, roughly, without any feelings, without any tenderness or care, with only physical need to prompt him, he grasped at the waist of her leggings and started to tug them around and off her hips.

"Fen?" she repeated, a little stronger this time.

He forced his mouth against hers, kissing her without that undercurrent of tenderness, without any mutual passion, merely going through the motions, as he fought to remove her leggings. He'd gotten them just far enough out of the way, binding her thighs together and making her lose her grip around his waist. But she was open to him, open and vulnerable and ready. Unfortunately, he was not ready.

She tore her mouth from his grasp. "Fen!" she demanded. She was starting to understand that something was wrong, especially when the inevitable did not happen.

He answered with a growl of frustration. He would NOT let this happen, not tonight, not after everything they'd been through together, not after all he'd fought for… her love, her trust.

Her… freedom…?

 _"Leto?"_ a voice called to him, not through his ears, but through his memories. Memories he didn't have. Of a life he didn't remember. Shared with a woman he didn't recognize.

_…the human was twice his size, and had him in a choke hold, but if he craned his neck he could see her, some of the slaves had been allowed to watch, and her bright red hair was hard to miss…_

_"Leto?"_ the voice called again, and more of that memory he didn't remember came to light.

_…hitting the human in the balls had only pissed off the other slave, who had thrown him to the ground and bent his arm so far back his shoulder was dislocated, his cheek broken open and bleeding on the flagstones, his spine about to be snapped…_

"Fenris?" a different voice called, but he could no longer hear it, his mind lost.

_…he couldn't give up, his mother and sister meant too much, it didn't matter what sinister plans their master had for whoever volunteered, he would not surrender…_

_"Leto!" the young woman cried, the guards dragging her and their mother away, and Danarius' hand on his shoulder turning him around._

_…he'd given everything, worked hard to become one of their master's favorites, and in winning that boon, it wouldn't matter what happened to him, so long as his mother and sister were free…_

_"Come, Fenris, my little wolf."_

_…the pain, the pain was unending, the lyrium a blue-white heat, a liquid fire, tearing through his veins, slicing into his flesh, melding with his very being, leaving him throbbing and sore, and with every movement—no matter how slight—rubbing his muscles and bones against the lyrium and bringing the searing pain back to life…_

"…come…"

_…it was easier, it was so much easier, to forget, to let it go, to allow the pain of the ritual to recede into the abyss, taking the rest of his memories with it…_

"…come on… Fenris… come back to me…"

…

He was panting, out of breath, as if he had been running for miles through the jungles of Seheron. He was sweating, too, and for the first moment, he found himself wondering why he couldn't hear the drone of insects. That humming, buzzing, infernal noise had never ceased, not even at night, all those months he was in Seheron. Why didn't he hear it now?

Cool hands touched his cheek then swept the bangs off of his brow. Inadvertently they found and brushed over the three dots of lyrium on his forehead, and his eyes crinkled in reflexive pain.

"Fenris, please, don't do this to me. Come on, my love, wake up. Wake up."

He did so, with a startled gasp. Though his eyes had been open the whole time, he hadn't seen the person hovering in the center of his vision, the heart-shaped face, the Agreggio Pavali lips and darker red hair, the bright eyes so alive and vibrant.

It wasn't the face he had been expecting to see… was it?

"Fenris?" Hrodwynn asked, timidly. She'd pulled her hand back when he'd gasped, and with the strange way he was staring at her, she wasn't sure if she should hold him, or run.

His hand reached out and grasped her wrist, almost painfully, his eyebrows curving as he fought to remember her name.

She didn't move, she couldn't, frozen not in fear of him, but in fear of doing something harmful to him. She didn't know what had just happened, didn't understand it, but she knew she had somehow caused it.

The hair… the hair was… wrong… red… too dark…

"…no…" he moaned, letting go of her wrist, rolling away from her, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. He was on the floor in the middle of the room, the fire flickering merrily behind him. Slowly memory came back to him, but it wasn't the memory he wanted, the memory he'd been having a few moments ago. Instead it was the memory of Hrodwynn, emotionally vulnerable, sexually desirable, wanton and needy and messy and rough and…

And…

"Fenris?"

He was panting again, feeling disconnected, lost, as if he were watching himself in some sort of play, acting on the stage while he also sat in the audience. For a moment the two visions superimposed over each other, he the player and the spectator, and he couldn't tell which one was the real him.

Her cool, light, quick fingers touched his shoulder again, mindful of the lyrium, gentle and soothing, conveying all her love and worry and care in that simple gesture.

"I… no…" he moaned, unable to lift his eyes to hers, but far too easily lifting his arm to brush away her touch, "I can't…"

"Can't what?" she pressed. "Can't have sex with me? Can't love me? Can't look at me? What?"

Ebony eyebrows curved even further, as green orbs dulled with pain and self-denial lifted upwards. She was kneeling before him, her leggings off and lying somewhere forgotten, the pale skin of her legs reminding him of cream. Her tunic was hanging from her shoulders, soft and shimmering in the firelight, barely long enough to cover her hips. And one of her hands was reaching out to him, palm upwards, offering to help.

"I'm sorry," he shook his head, trying to push himself to his feet, "I… I can't…"

"Oh, no, not again," she sprang to her feet before him, anticipating the run. She barely kept ahead of him as he started for the door, she running backwards, her one hand still out though now held as if to stop him. "You are NOT leaving. Not again. Something is wrong, Fenris. Something upset you just now, deeply, and I want to know what it is!"

He shook his head, too ashamed to give it voice, dropped his face and half turned away.

"Please, Fen," she breathed—she begged. "I hurt you just now, somehow, in these past few moments. And I don't know what it is that I did." Her words stopped suddenly, her own pain tinting the sounds. She stared, hard, at his profile, and though he wouldn't turn back to her, at least he didn't finish turning away. "I don't want to hurt you," she continued, finding her voice. "I may have wanted to, once, when I thought you hated me, but I don't any longer. I… I love you, Fen." She stepped towards him, taking his head in her hands, forcing him to face her. "I. Love. You. And I don't want to hurt you, but I am. So, please, Fen, talk to me. Tell me what I did or said that caused this to happen. Please. I don't want to do this to you anymore."

Oh, Merciful Maker, Fenris prayed, what a mess. She professed her love, her pain, her not wanting to hurt him. But telling her—admitting to her—would hurt him.

And not telling her, trying to live with a lie, would hurt them both.

"Did… did you have another one of those memory episodes? Did it come back again?" her voice was gentle against his ears.

"No… not exactly… I mean, yes… but it wasn't… I don't know…"

She felt a brief shudder of relief, not that he had told her anything of import, but at least he was trying to communicate. "I needed to ask because, well, what happened tonight, just now, I mean, we were, erm, engaged in a specific activity. And we had just finished the last time you acted like this. And two times in a row is a little too much of a coincidence." She swallowed, hating the idea, the concept, that somehow being with her broke through his amnesia. But in a painful way. In a way that left him broken and bleeding and…

His hands took hold of her wrists, not to pull her hands away from his face, but to keep her in contact with him. He closed his eyes, too, and pressed his forehead against hers. "I know but… it wasn't the sex… it was… something else… something wrong, somehow… I can't explain…"

She swallowed, coldness gripping her heart, "You mean," she licked her lips, wanting to understand but also afraid of the answer, "That us being together, in love, having sex, that's it's wrong somehow?"

He shook his head, rolling his forehead across hers, "I… Maker, I hope not!" He finally pulled back and looked her in the eyes. "There's nothing I want more in this world, than to love, and be loved, by you. I feel it so strongly… I would do anything… give anything… I love you so much…! But I… I can't…"

His words overflowed with pain to spill into her own heart, but the fog was beginning to clear. "I… I think I might have an idea." She watched the wan flicker of hope fill his eyes, lending a bit of life to the green orbs before it faded. "All this tonight," the pads of her thumbs stroked his skin, soothingly, tenderly, "And the other night, our lovemaking, how deeply you love me, how much you would do for me, the lengths you would go for me. That feeling, that love… that much love, it triggered something in you, something from your past, from the part you can't remember." She stood before him, fearless, the idea becoming more clear as she talked, working it through with her words. "Something about loving me, so deeply, so selflessly, it causes these episodes. That's what happened, am I right?"

"I…" he gave his head a little shake, but firmly kept her hands in place, "I… don't know…"

"I think I do," she didn't smile, but neither was her face neutral. It was open, encouraging, hopeful and determined. "Fenris, you were a slave. You belonged to Danarius. But Hadriana, when she mentioned your sister, she said your sister was a servant, not a slave. Your sister is free. What does that tell you? Is it common in Tevinter for one member of a family to be free while another is not? Especially if they're elven?"

"It's… uncommon," he allowed, "But possible. One can sell oneself into slavery to pay off a debt, or to provide for the rest of their family…"

"Maybe that was it," she eagerly seized on the option. "Maybe you hadn't always been a slave to Danarius, but sold yourself into his service to provide for your sister, because you loved her so much, you would do anything for her." She batted her bright green eyes at him, "Just as you love me so much, you would do anything for me. It's that love, this love, our love, that's reminding you of your past, of what you might have done for your sister."

"I… but that would mean…" He looked at her with the face of a child, of someone questioning who needed answers, and she did seem to have them. "What would that mean? Exactly?"

"I'm not sure," she continued, shrugging her shoulders, "I'm not sure at all what any of this means, if I'm close or way off the mark. But I do know, if there's something about our being… together… you know, that way… if it's hurting you, somehow, then…" she paused to lick her lips, knowing her next words were going to cause her pain—but not saying them would cause her, both of them, even more pain, "Then we won't do it."

"What?" his eyes blinked, but whether shocked or outraged or relieved she couldn't tell, not from the dull green curtain that hung across them. He gripped her hands even tighter, not that she had been pulling away, but her words sounded as if she would, "You want to… break up?"

"Fuck, no!" she stated, quite clearly she thought, and was rewarded to see relief flicker cross his face. "But maybe we shouldn't, well, you know, push matters. We can still live together, and be together, we just can't, um, go too far."

"I…" Maker, that would be a relief, to not feel the pressure to pleasure her, but… "We've only, really, done it the once, I would think you'd want, well, to try it some more…"

She gave a growl this time, one of frustration, and yanked her hands out of his grasp to shove at his shoulders. "What's that phrase of yours? Vishante kaffas? Yes, that's it." She shoved at him again, making him stumble back a step. "Vishante kaffas, Fenris," she shoved again, "If I wanted to have sex, I'd go down the street to the Blooming Rose and pay for it!

"But that's not what I want," her hands changed from shoving him to gripping him, pulling him closer. "I want you. I want our love. I want it to be open and free and because we—both of us—want it from each other. And if you can't give that to me right now, it's alright. I'd rather wait for years than force you to have sex with me; that's too much like rape, like what Danarius did to you. And I won't do that to you. We'll go so far, do as much, as you're comfortable with. The first sign that you're having trouble, we'll stop.

"And as for this amnesia of yours," she forced herself to continue, forced herself to speak with more confidence than she could muster, "Even though it's coming between us right now, it won't last. It's wearing thin. It's starting to break down. And once it does, once you get your memory back, then we will be free of it and can be together!"

He'd stayed silent before the force of her tirade, and in the brunt of her hope, he dared, "And just how do we get my memory back?"

She relaxed, sensing she may have finally gotten through that thick skull of his, "Easy. We just have to find your sister."

He blinked. "Come again?"

"Your sister," she repeated. "These episodes started after the mention of her, and occur every time you remember how deeply you love her, so undoubtedly this mess has something to do with her. At any rate, it's got to jog a few memories loose, if we find her and see her again, right? So, we focus on tracking down Varania, find her, meet her, get your memory back, and then we can move on with our lives."

"That easily?" he asked, skeptically.

"Well, not exactly," she had the decency to blush.

"Didn't think so," he sighed, feeling the disappointment.

"We can't go to Tevinter, or at least you can't, or you'd be arrested as a runaway slave. You have to admit, you're kind of unique. One look at you, and anyone who knows anything will know you're Danarius' runaway slave. No, we can't go to Varania, so we'll have to bring her to us. And you know what that means." She paused to look at him, but he only gave his head a little shake, prompting her to finish, "We're going to have to learn how to read and write."

He swallowed, thinking of the daunting task before them, "Kaffas…"

"Yeah, well, it wasn't a perfect plan…" she admitted. They both stood silent for a moment, chewing over their shared obstacle.

"I know," he snapped his fingers. "Hawke gave me that book written by Shartan, thinking I would find some relevance within it. When he discovered I couldn't read, he did offer to teach me."

She made a face, "I'd rather slit my own wrists, than ask him for help. How about Anders; he's been wanting to teach me for years."

Fenris' lip curled into a snarl, "I feel the same about him, as you do about Hawke."

Hrodwynn sighed, giving her lip a brief nip, "Well, there is one other person we could ask…"


	26. Plots

Varric sat at his usual spot, a deck of cards shuffling mesmerizingly through his fingers, a mug of what might be ale at his elbow, his soft brown eyes surveying the tavern as a king surveying his subjects. Not that he had delusions of grandeur—far from it, of course!—but in all modesty, no one knew Kirkwall or it's residents as well as he.

It was his favorite pastime, watching people, a safe and quiet enough hobby that helped to fill the time between those "little" jobs with Hawke. Not that there had been too many of those lately. Ever since the Arishok attacked the city and killed the Viscount—or more importantly, ever since Hawke battled his way through countless qunari and challenged the Arishok to mortal combat, avenging the Viscount's death and freeing the city of the qunari and finding himself proclaimed the "Champion of Kirkwall"…

Well, Hawke had been busy with other matters lately, and that was fine by Varric. After everything else that had happened, he could stand a bit of a breather. It wasn't as if he was hurting for cash, not like he had been when he'd first seen Hawke stumbling blindly through the city, mother and kid brother in tow, green and lost and hungry. No, since teaming up with the indomitable apostate, he had more gold than he could count, more business than he could keep track of, and more connections than what was good for him.

And the damn Merchants Guild wouldn't leave him alone because of it!

A card slipped out of place, falling away from the deck, to land face-up halfway across the table. The card was from the suit of songs, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he paused in his shuffling to pick it back up.

Nope, he thought to himself, turning the card in his fingers and slipping it back into the deck, a little breather had been just fine by him.

Of course, he hadn't been idle. He'd had plenty of things to keep himself busy, not the least of which were his two pupils. He looked across the tavern room to the bar, where said pupils—Fenris and Hrodwynn—were waiting for the next round of drinks. He had been surprised, and a bit pleased, when the two of them came up to him three years ago and asked him to teach them to read and write. And he looked on them now with a bit of fatherly pride, thinking of how far they'd come in such short a time…

… "You always draw your 'e's backwards."

"What?" Hrodwynn blinked, looking up at Fenris. She had ink stains on her fingertips, the quill almost breaking she held it so tightly in her hand. She watched him tip the feathery end of his quill down to tickle a specific spot on her parchment. She followed his gesture, her eyes dropping and her cheeks warming with embarrassment as she saw he was correct. Her tone was almost accusatory as she retorted, "How can you tell? You're sitting across from me. It's upside-down to you."

"I… can," Fenris shrugged, leaning back and setting his quill aside. He passed his own parchment over to Varric before standing up. "Finished. I know how letters are supposed to look, how they relate to each other, the direction the text flows, whether it's upside-down or backwards or even seen through the paper when it's held up to the light."

Varric half-tuned out their bickering, knowing tensions were a little high between them. He looked down at Fenris' handwriting, noting the artistic quality, the evenness and measured pace. The broody elf took his time when he wrote something, careful and precise and thoughtful and, well, he literally DREW his letters, like a master artist painting a portrait.

Another parchment was shoved in his direction, the paper making a scraping noise on the tabletop and almost tearing. Varric suppressed the sigh as he looked down at Hrodwynn's latest attempt. She was quite the opposite, her letters scratched and slopped down on the paper, always in too much of a hurry to form her thoughts before she formed the words. Her page was a labyrinth of blotches and scribbled-out words, as vibrant and volatile as the woman who formed them.

Their critique of each other's penmanship escalated in volume, and Varric couldn't ignore them any longer. He set aside their work and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he quipped, "Oh, will you two get a room!"

That shut them up. They both turned as one to stare at Varric, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He smiled inwardly at their stunned silence, but outwardly he kept his scowl. "Or better yet, use this one. I'll go downstairs and get myself a mug or two, give you some privacy. Then when it's finally out of your system, you can join me."

Fenris recovered first. "I have no idea to what you are referring…"

"Don't even try it, Broody," Varric's hand moved away from his nose to make a ceasing gesture. He fixed both of them with his glare as he continued, "The sexual tension between the two of you is palpable. I can feel it. I can actually feel the…" he flapped his hand out in front of him, "energy… the electricity arcing back and forth. Which is surprising; I thought the two of you had already."

"Had already… what…?" Hrodwynn didn't want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Don't answer that," Fenris moved to place himself between her and Varric, a very protective—and very telling—posture. "It is none of your business."

"Right," the dwarf rolled his eyes, "The health and happiness of two of my closest friends is none of my business. Alright, fine, I'll pull my big, fat, broken nose out of your private affairs," his eyes twinkled at his little play on words, and the deepening blush on Hrodwynn's cheeks confirmed his suspicions. "But at least let me give you one last word of advice: find a way, some way, any way, to get it done. All this… tension… is taking its toll on you two. And the rest of us are beginning to see it…"

…Varric's eyes came back into focus, his mind returning from last week's memory to see the two as they were now, standing hip-to-hip at the bar, Fenris' hand on her shoulder, Hrodwynn's faced lifted up towards his. He said something, and she smiled in response, the pale skin of her face easily showing the faintest blush. Yet her smile was a bit tight, and his fingers never twitched nor strayed to touch her skin. No, things still weren't quite right between them, but they were doing the best they could, Varric supposed. He desperately hoped, and prayed, that this little plan of theirs would work—not that they had shared their plan with him. Yet he had managed to ferret out come clues and put the pieces together. As the two of them returned to the table with the mugs, he nodded for Hrodwynn to hand him a fresh mug. When she reached his side, he paused in his shuffling to reach into his coat.

"I just remembered, I have something for you," he spoke quietly, for Hrodwynn's ears only. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the folded letter he pressed into her side beneath the table and out of sight of the others. Automatically she took it, if only to keep it from being discovered, but when she looked back at him, her question was written plainly in her expression. He smiled reassuringly and answered, "Just a few names of some 'associates' of mine whom you might want to look up once you reach your, um, shall we say, port of call."

"How did you…?" she started and stopped herself just as quickly.

"Oh, you and the Elf have been pretty stealthy about the whole thing, but, come on, this is me we're talking about. Of course I figured out what the two of you are up to. There was your sudden and urgent interest in learning to read," he began to tick off on his fingers, a bit awkwardly around the card deck, "Still surprised you two came to me, rather than Hawke or Anders, but I suppose you have your reasons. Then there's all these quirks you've picked up recently, cursing and toasting in Tevene, almost like you're trying to adopt new habits—Fenris' habits. I've even found out about the passage you booked on the ship sailing for Minrathous in the morning—passage for one, by the way? Am I to assume only one of you is going?" he raised an eyebrow at her, but she pressed her lips together tightly, as if afraid of what might slip out if she didn't keep them closed. "Uh-huh, thought so." It was a non-committal sort of sound, neither approving nor disproving. He finished off his old mug and handed it to her.

"Varric, I…"

"Nah, don't say it," he waved it aside, whatever she might have said, whether apology or denial or confession, he didn't care at that point, because he already knew. "I imagine you've got your reasons; Broody, too. And if your reasons are his reasons, then I know there's been a lot of thought put into it, whatever 'it' is the two—or one—of you are doing." He shrugged off his sullenness over not being included in their plot, his concern for her outweighing any hurt feelings, and reached around to grip her forearm for a moment. "Just promise me, Button, that you'll be careful."

"Always," she answered a little too glibly, and a little too quickly.

"I mean it…"

She stopped his words with a quick peck on his cheek. It surprised him, and maybe it surprised her, too, but she recovered first. "I mean it, too. I'll be careful. We," she couldn't help the glance over to Fenris, who was setting mugs down in front of Aveline and Sebastian, "Have been careful. It's taken us three years to get this far; that's being careful, isn't it?"

Varric sighed, knowing she was right, but still not feeling good about this. "Fine, but see one of those friends of mine, as soon as you step foot on land."

"I will," she promised.

"First thing," he pressed.

"Second," she countered, and continued when his face darkened into a scowl. "The timing on this trip is a bit tight. As soon as I get there, I have to hare off to meet someone before she gives up waiting. But after I'm done speaking to her, or, erm, him, or, whoever," she paused to clear her throat, "I'll go straight to one of these friends of yours and check in. Just so you don't worry. It'll probably be a waste of time, you know that, right? I could be back onboard a ship and heading home before you hear from this friend."

"That's alright," he let go of her arm, "I'd rather hear good news twice, than no news at all." She gave him a smile for an answer. He watched her move away, meandering around the table as if merely passing the time, sidling up next to Fenris to whisper something to him. Probably about the list of names Varric had passed her, if Fenris' sudden glare was anything to judge by. Varric didn't let himself get flustered by it, instead leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile and raising his mug in acknowledgement. Fenris glared at him for a second longer, before giving him a short nod.

Well, Varric thought to himself, taking a sip before going back to shuffling his cards, he'd done all he could for the two kids. He hoped everything would work out for them in the end.

His gaze drifted onwards and settled on the Chantry Brother, Sebastian. There was another area of worry for Varric. He knew Sebastian was up to something; there had been a lot of correspondence between the former prince and his former kingdom. But whether the Brother was plotting to leave the Chantry and reclaim his throne, or something else beyond Varric's currently ability to discern, the solution to the mystery eluded him…

…Sebastian's smile was heavenly, his brilliant blue eyes merrily devouring the words written on the parchment. He hunched over his letter, elbows to either side, so enthralled with the missive that he forgot he was at the Hanged Man. Varric sat down at the table, setting one of the mugs before Sebastian, pretending all he had been doing was getting the next round of drinks, and that he hadn't at all been spending the past thirty seconds trying to get a peek around one of the Brother's massive biceps at what he was reading.

"Good news?" Varric hummed, his practiced and unconcerned voice echoing inside his fresh mug, gently reminding the Brother that he wasn't alone.

Sebastian started, jumping in his seat, blinking rapidly at the dwarf, his hands slapping the parchment with fingers splayed, attempting to hide all the lettering. "What? Oh! Er, quite, yes," he quickly tried to put the letter away, crumpling it in his haste to fold it and all but tearing the parchment as he shoved it in a pouch at his belt. He must have sensed somehow that Varric needed convincing, as he did his best to appeared unconcerned. He slouched in his chair and stretched an arm across the back, cocking an ankle over his knee, toying with the handle on his mug. Lazy lids fell down over his bright blue eyes as he stared into the murky, mucky brew. "I mean, no, nothing, not really, just some, um, correspondence from a, ah, old friend."

"An 'old friend,' huh," Varric repeated; he wasn't buying it for a moment. The sudden guilty start, the almost puppy-like eagerness to appear nonchalant, told him more plainly than a written confession that Choirboy was up to no good. Either he was up to something, or there was a woman involved—which also meant he was up to something. Partially out of habit, partially because he simply could not help himself, he started to sniff around for clues. "So, what's her name? Mont—something?"

Varric had tried to keep his voice easy and relaxed, but Sebastian was too uptight over this subject. "What?!" Sebastian's voice squeaked painfully, like a boy hitting puberty. He paused to clear his throat, wrapping an arm around himself beneath the table and patting his pouch to make sure the letter was secure. " No, no-no-no-no, I mean, er, that is," his expression turned slightly crafty, but he was too far out of practice, too far gone from his roguish days, to pull it off, "Whatever would make you say my letter is from a girl?"

From a girl, or about a girl, Varric wondered to himself. He thought he had him for a moment, but now he wasn't so sure. He decided to play along, at least until he figured out whether or not the letter was from an old flame. It would be scandalous if an avowed Brother took up with a woman, and he wanted to be the first to know of it—to protect Hawke's reputation, of course. The Champion of Kirkwall had an image to maintain, and that image might get a wee bit tarnished if one of his companions behaved poorly, guilt by association and all that. Thinking of Sebastian's upbringing, he decided a direct approach might be best. "Well, there's the slight flush to your skin, probably due to an elevated heart rate that resulted from, oh," he paused to wink suggestively, "Let's call it 'excitement.' Now, there's only a couple of things that can get a man that, er, 'excited,' that quickly. A girl would be one of them…"

Sebastian's cough cut him off short. "Ah, yes, I see your point," he nodded agreeably, "Well, if it were from a girl I once knew, it really wouldn't matter now, would it, with me being in the Chantry and vows of chastity and all."

Now Varric was certain. Sebastian looked very relieved that Varric thought the letter was from an old love—much too relieved. Which meant that the letter was from someone else. And about something else. Something he wasn't willing to share, at least not yet…

…Varric came out of his musings and noticed Sebastian had noticed his stare. The Brother was looking at him, smiling only a little falsely, but it didn't fool the dwarf. Varric returned the smile to put the Brother at ease before returning to his shuffling, his gaze drifting safely down to the cards. Feeling that old tingling of unease, he thought it might be best to discover what Sebastian was up to before matters got out of hand. He tried to remember what had been the name on that letter. It hadn't been in the address but in the body of the letter, as if it had been the subject of the message. He racked his brain, trying to draw the script out of memory and back to the light. Mont—- something. No, that wasn't quite right. It was… something—monte.

His train of thought was suddenly and completely broken. The door of the Hanged Man opened and two men walked in, one a strawberry-blond with an almost haunted gaze around his eyes, the other a tall and dark cool drink of water who swaggered in as if he owned the place. Well, Varric chuckled to himself, Hawke certainly bought enough ale and spent enough time here, he might as well have bought it.

"HAWKE!" a call rang out from patrons and staff alike at the sight of the Champion of Kirkwall. Ever one who loved the spotlight, though of course he would humbly deny the desire to seek it out, Hawke raised a hand to acknowledge the adoration of his public, smiling perfect white teeth that were such a beautiful contrast to his dark hair and swarthy skin.

"Anders!" Hrodwynn's voice was the only nonconformist in the tavern. Varric inwardly chuckled at that. Even after all these years, Hrodwynn and Hawke never could find a way to tolerate each other. He looked up at the pair of mages as they took seats at the table, and yet another foreboding conversation came to mind…

… Varric scoffed, "You've got to be joking." He stared at the mage standing next to him. They were behind the stairs, around the corner and out of sight of the table full of their friends. He had felt enough ominous premonitions when Anders had first asked to speak with him privately—without Hawke. But after hearing what Anders wanted him to find…

"I'm quite serious," he grabbed Varric's arm and added, "And keep your voice down. I…" he paused to give a guilty glance over his shoulder to where the others were sitting and singing and enjoying the evening, "I don't want the others to hear of this… not yet…"

"Wait," Varric held up his hand, slipping from Anders' loosening grasp as he did so and bringing those darkened, haunted eyes back onto him, "Wait. Just let me get this straight. You think you may have found a recipe for a potion that will rid you of Justice, but you don't want to tell anyone about it? Not even Hawke? Or Hrodwynn?" There was a bad sensation, like an itch he couldn't scratch, winding its way up his spine. It put out roots right between his shoulder blades, digging in with the intention of becoming a permanent part of his body.

"No, I don't," Anders gaze dropped, refusing to meet his eyes. He stared at a button on Varric's coat as he continued, "Not yet, at any rate, not until I've tested it, until I'm sure it will work." There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head as if he knew it would be Hawke, which it was. The Champion was sauntering up to the bar, ordering the next round of drinks, but Varric figured he was really trying to discover where he and Anders had gone to, and what they were up to. Anders had paused to glance across the crowded tavern, too, to where Hawke was politely, but firmly, declining a young woman's offer to go upstairs. "I… I don't think I will be able to bear it, how they will look at me when I… that is, if the potion were to fail and I were to let them down."

The hunger in the man's eyes, the angst, the depression, the desperation—all of it tugged at Varric's heartstrings. He was always a softie and a sucker for a good romance. "Hey, listen to me, Blondie. They love you, both of them, unconditionally; you could never let them down, whether or not this potion works. The important thing is, is that you tried, alright?" He saw Anders' face grown even more emotional, and he caved in, "Oh, fine, whatever, I'll do it. I'll see if I can't find a source of drakestone for you. Might take me some time, thought; it's not like I can run down to the corner stall at the local marketplace and pick up a lump or two for a few coppers."

"It doesn't have to be purchased," Anders shot him a look, too relieved and grateful, and almost too quickly. He seemed to realize this as well, and made a prevaricating shrug, trying to ease past the moment, "I mean, if I knew where to find it, a natural source of it, I'd go and pick some up myself. Trying to keep this under wraps as much as possible, you see."

"Playing close to the vest, are we?"

Varric meant it as a small joke, but Anders took it far too seriously. "Is there any other way to play it, when so much is at stake?"

There was a wistfulness to his tone, an almost defeatist melancholy. Again Varric felt that chill, like someone had just walked over his grave…

… "Are we going to play or not?" quipped Merril.

Varric shook himself, coming yet again out of his musings. Here he sat, amongst his friends, friends so close he thought of them as family. And worried about them just as much. Fenris and Hrodwynn, in love but unable to love. Hawke and Anders, doomed before they started. Merril and her child-like innocence lighting the dungheap corners of Kirkwall. Sebastian, the most vengeful Brother in the history of the Chantry. Aveline, newlywed and still wearing the pants in the family.

The door opened one last time, and a woman walked quietly into the bar.

His mind still thinking of family, Varric was hard pressed to keep the smirk from his lips. There was always the black sheep in the family, he thought as he looked up at the movement; every family has one, even Varric's slipshod one gathered around the table. And there his stood. "Isabela?" he questioned, wondering if she was truly there, or if his wistful thoughts had conjured her image. Despite the music and rivalry in the tavern, his voice sounded loud in his ears; at least it was loud enough for everyone at the table to hear him and look up. He hadn't wanted to draw their attention to the newcomer, not until he was sure she was real, at least.

Yet, apparently, it wasn't an apparition or a flight of fancy, but the real flesh and blood, and flesh, a lot of flesh, of Isabela. Perhaps it was absence making the heart grow fonder, but Varric found himself admiring her buxom build—purely on a professional level, one impressive masculine chest admiring another impressive, though feminine chest. He would have made a welcoming gesture to her, inviting her to the table, but she wasn't a woman who wanted—nor waited—for invitations. She strode boldly forward, swaggering slightly as if she had been on ship for a few months and was still trying to regain her land legs.

"'Lo, Hawke," she nodded to him first, "Anders, Varric, erm," her eyes swept the table clockwise, "Everyone."

"You have a lot of balls, showing your face here," Anders hissed, "After what you've done!"

She sighed, unfazed by his ire. As she walked around the table, she slowed to run a hand across Anders' shoulders, the other snaking around to steal his mug, "I've been accused of a lot of things, love, but never of having balls. If you'd like, I could prove it to you…"

"That won't be necessary, Isabela," Hawke intervened, in both the argument and the theft, firmly removing the mug from her fingers. "If anyone here has a right to have a grievance with you, it would be me," he touched his nose, and the scar, a lasting memento from the Arishok. "And I don't, so the matter's settled."

Her eyes narrowed as she stood up straight and tall, somehow accentuating the curves of her figure even more. "I don't need your charity, Hawke, or your forgiveness. I did something stupid; I'll live with that."

"You admit it," Anders pressed, not believing her capitulation, "That stealing the Book of Koslun was stupid?

"No, giving the damn thing back!" she fired, strolling around now to Varric's side. "I had it. I was free. I should have kept running." She flopped down on the seat next to the dwarf, and tried not to notice him push his mug a little bit closer to her. "But I didn't. Anyway, I'm not apologizing for anything. I'm definitely not admitting I'm ashamed of what I did. And I don't need yours," she paused to look around at them all, "Or anyone else's forgiveness. I am who I am. Love me, or not; I don't care." She pretended to steal Varric's mug and down half of it in one go.

Right, Varric thought to himself, she didn't care, and that's why she came back, just to show them how much she didn't care. He didn't say anything out loud, however, knowing it had taken a lot of balls for her to come back to Kirkwall, much less to walk into the Hanged Man and face them all. He allowed her what was left of her pride, and made a small sound of protest, pretending to have just realized that she drank from his mug.

"Looks like we're all here, Varric," Hawke said, also allowing Isabela to save face. "I think now you can deal the hand."

"What are we playing?" Hrodwynn reached down to her pouch, carefully counting out a few coins, trying to hoard as much as she could for her upcoming trip, while also hoping to win a bit more. It would have been easier if Isabela wasn't at the table, but that's the way the cards were dealt some days.

"Wicked Grace," Varric answered, a corner of his mouth curling into a private smile, "What else?"

Isabela was quiet for all of five seconds, staring at Hawke's profile, before she turned to speak to Anders. "You know, you should thank me. About the scar, I mean. It's done nothing to mar his features. In fact, I think it gives him a bit of a devil-may-care quality. Fairly alluring. I imagine he's had more offers…"

"Isabela!" Hawke barked, fighting to keep the heat from his face. He coughed, covering his outburst, and added, "It's your turn to place a bet. Are you in, or out?"

She put her cards down, toying with a couple of coins, eyeing him up and down like he was a side of beef. "Oh, I'm in. I am most definitely in."

Hawke rolled his eyes while Anders huffed and glared. She laughed, a merry sound, and tossed her coins on top of the growing pile on the table.

Varric added his own coins and dealt the next round, feeling very pleased with having his family whole and sound, at least for one evening.

* * *

A few hours later, a few very short hours in Hrodwynn's opinion, she knew it was time to leave. Fenris must have sensed it as well. He touched her elbow, a mere brush of fingertips, but considering their current situation with intimacy, her skin was instantly covered in gooseflesh. She shifted slightly, wanting to lean into his warmth, but kept her promise to allow him to set the limits of their physical interactions.

"Are you ready?" he breathed, barely heard over the tavern music.

"I…" she couldn't look at him, knowing he would disapprove of what she was going to say next, "I can't, Fenris, I just can't leave without telling him something. I'm sorry."

"It's none of his business," his voice growled low, like the warning of a Mabari before it barks.

"I won't tell him what I'm doing, or why," she glance up and immediately wished she hadn't. His eyes were hard, cold, staring with deadly intensity at his cards. "Or even where I'm going. But I have to at least tell him I'm leaving. Otherwise, he'll blame you. He'll take it out on you."

"I can manage it," Fenris' voice continued to rumble like distant thunder.

"But I couldn't. The whole time I'm away, I'm going to be worrying about him doing something terrible to you. Please, Fen, let me speak to him. For my peace of mind? Please?"

He didn't nod, but neither did he shake his head. He merely stared broodily at his cards. Yet when she made to stand up, he tossed his hand down and made to go with her.

"You're not leaving now, are you, Button?" Varric asked, "And without saying goodbye?"

"Leaving. Goodbye?" Anders repeated, bewildered for a moment. The night was young, after all, and there was still plenty of money to be won. But Hrodwynn was standing, and Fenris with her, and he only just now noticed there had been a pack hidden on the floor between their feet. She picked it up, twisting the strap in her hands, and looked at him with her bright emerald eyes.

"Anders, could I speak with you for a moment?"

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and pushed his cards facedown, his eyes flickering back and forth between her and the accursed elf. "What is it?" he asked, nearly tripping over the bench as he hastened to his feet. "What's wrong? What's happened? Where are you going?"

"Nothing, nowhere, it's not, never mind," she sputtered to a halt. Damn, but this was harder than she thought it would be. But she couldn't just up and leave, not without telling Anders something, not without giving him some sort of explanation or reason.

Not without trying to keep him from getting even more mad at Fenris. "Just come with me for a moment."

Fenris watched them intently, his eyes never straying from their forms, as Hrodwynn led Anders to a quiet corner of the tavern. They talked, Hrodwynn barely keeping herself calm, Anders' face growing redder and hotter by the moment. Fenris had known that it was a bad idea, that it would do no good, that Anders was going to hold him responsible no matter what they said or did. But Hrodwynn was stubborn, and blind, and couldn't see the man she had known, the Anders of old, was gone. In his place stood a haggard, haunted creature filled with bile and spite.

"What's going on?" Hawke asked, moving to stand next to Fenris and joining his gaze. "Do you and Hrodwynn have some sort of little adventure planned? And without me?" He tried to keep his voice light, humorous, mimicking the personal affront, but Fenris could tell it was strained.

Before Fenris could be forced to answer, however, Anders stalked up to them. He saw the mage's eyes blazing with fury, that flicker of Justice's light shooting across them, and wondered yet again why he seemed to be the only one who noticed the danger Anders was in, the danger he was becoming. "You put her up to this!" Anders stabbed at Fenris' chest, his finger a dagger, his words a sharpened edge. "Didn't you! No, don't deny it! She's blind whenever it comes to you! Blind and fearless and reckless…"

"Anders!" Hrodwynn gasped, grabbing his arm, trying to get his attention, to get him to stop, to keep him from making a scene.

"…and foolish and stupid! She's going to get herself killed one day because of you!" He shook his arm, hard, dislodging her annoying tugging. Hrodwynn was thrown off balance, hard and fast, and found herself falling backwards. She slammed into a table, bounced, and crashed into a chair. It didn't break, amazingly, but it did topple over and took her with it to the floor. The clatter that was made was loud, but the silence that followed was deafening.

"Anders?" Hrodwynn's small voice drifted up from the floor.

He didn't move, he couldn't, transfixed, staring in consternation as Fenris walked around him, as Fenris reached down to her, as Fenris lifted her to her feet. She didn't look at Anders, her eyes only for the damned elf. And when that tattooed, moral-less, bastard touched her cheek, she closed her eyes in a slow blink and leaned into the gesture.

It made him sick!

"You've seduced her," he ground out, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. "You've warped her mind, tricked her into doing this job for you. It's something dangerous, isn't it? Far too dangerous for you to do it yourself. So you've coerced her into doing it for you."

"No one's forcing me, Anders, I want to do this."

"Shut up!" he yelled at her, a flicker of brilliant bluish-white light seeming to try to burst out through his skin. He felt Justice's call, that allure to allow the spirit to take over, to take care of matters, it would be so easy to simply step aside and allow Justice to prevail…

He wrestled for control over himself, keeping the spirit's siren-like call at bay, and focused on the girl before him. He had to make her understand, he had to keep her from making this mistake, he had to protect her. He took a step forward, and saw her take half a step back.

He saw her movement and paused, and his expression suddenly changed. It was as if a veil was lifted from his eyes, as if he could only now see her, not the half-starved waif he'd seen that first night all those years ago, but the young woman she had become. As well as the mussed hair, the redness on her cheek, the tears in her eyes, as if someone had just roughed her over slightly. But he couldn't see himself as the cause of her pain; that was someone else—it was always someone else. Determined to reach her, he softened his voice and tried again. "You don't know what you're saying, Wynnie. You're not in your right mind. He's taking advantage of you, using you, making you do things you normally wouldn't do."

"He's not making me…"

"Wynnie! Listen to me," he interrupted her, desperate to make her understand, before Justice could convince him to let him have a go. He took hold of her shoulders, pulling her out of Fenris' hands, pulling her around to face only him. "Please, Wynnie, please, whatever this is you're doing, don't. Don't do it. Don't help him. Make him do it himself. Make him clean up his own mess. Please, Wynnie. You know this isn't you. You never wanted to leave Kirkwall before. You were nervous enough that first time, remember? You told me about the sky, how wide and open it was, how it made you feel, like it was going to fall down on top of you, with nothing, no buildings or awnings, to hold it up. The sea won't be any different. No trees. No hills. No birds. Even less to hold it up there…"

"Stop! Please," she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to keep the vision out of her head. Fenris was right; she should have just left. But it was too late now, and she couldn't leave Anders like this. Forcing her eyes open, she tired one last time, "Please, Anders, please try to understand. Fenris can't do this. And I want to do this. I want to help him. It won't be long; I'll be back before the end of the month. But I am going to do this."

"Do this. Do that. You won't even tell me what it is. Can't you see why I think it's something wrong, something sinister, something you're ashamed of?"

"I'm not ashamed of it," she glanced to the side, towards Fenris, "But… I can't talk about it. Not because I don't want to, but it's not my place to say. Anders, please, try to understand…"

"I understand," he glared at Fenris, who coldly glared back. Everything had become brilliantly clear to him, leaving only one course of action left. "I fully understand. And I'm sorry, too, Wynnie," he turned back to her, squaring his shoulders, stealing his heart for what was to come, "But I have to do this. For your own good. You're not going. I forbid it."

A pair of vibrant emerald eyes blinked at him. "You… what…?"

"I forbid you to do this. If you do, if you walk out that door," he let go of her and pointed at the critical portal, looking down his nose at her, "Then I wash my hands of you."

"…Anders…?"

"I'm sorry, Wynnie, but I have to be harsh. I have to make you see! He's using you! And the only way I can get through to you, is to make you choose: him, or me."

Somewhere in the background, she knew the tavern music was still playing off-key. Somewhere in the background, she knew patrons were still talking and laughing round the bar. Somewhere in the background, she knew the others were staring at the two of them. But all she could see at that moment, was a stranger standing before her.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered, stinging tears springing up to her eyes.

He didn't speak. He didn't rise to the bait. He had to be strong, for her sake, to make her see the danger and the wrongness of what she was doing. He had until she went through that door… But it was already too late. He stood immovable, watching her turn away from him, pick up the strap of her pack in one hand, take that damnable alien elf's hand in the other, and walk out of the Hanged Man.

* * *

Hrodwynn was quiet most of the way to the docks. Fenris allowed it, only because he didn't want to speak of Anders, he didn't want her whole trip to be tainted by this memory. He had other plans, other hopes, and those were going to be difficult enough to surmount without bringing Anders into it.

"You've been quiet," she said at last, as if her thoughts had been mirroring his, "Even for you."

"I… have a lot on my mind." He gazed out over the ships, finding the one she would be sailing on, unconsciously slowing his steps.

She hummed a sound, somewhere between agreeing and regretting. Her steps, too, began to slow, even more than his. Her eyes, like his, also took in the sight of all the ships, gently bobbing on the waves. The masts stuck up into the night sky, blackened sticks punctuated by the occasional lantern, looking like tree branches swaying in an unfelt wind, the lanterns blinking in and out behind other masts, as if to make their own starry canopy. "You know something," she began, squeezing his hand a little bit tighter, "I don't think I've ever been back here, to the docks, not since…"

Her voice stopped, suddenly, harshly, as if the breath in her lungs had vanished. His steps stopped in answer, and he turned her towards him. His free hand reached up to cup her face, mindful of the sharpened tips of his gauntlet. He saw her press her cheek against his warmth, felt her soft skin brush against the lyrium brands on his palm, and savored the sting.

Tonight WAS going to be different.

"Forgive me, amatus," his voice was a husky whisper, "We've been so focused on getting my memory back, making plans and tracking down my sister, that we've done nothing about your own blank past."

She smiled sadly for a heartbeat, perhaps indulging herself in some private little moment of self-pity, before her chin lifted and her eyes glistened like the stars above them. "There's nothing to forgive. My memory hasn't been trying to come back, not like yours. And I don't have a single clue about my past or my family, where you have a sister. A sister who, by the way, is expecting me to meet her at a particular tavern by the end of a particular day. A deadline I won't meet if I don't get on that ship over there before it sails." It was a strong hint, but Fenris wasn't quite ready to let her leave.

"I'll see you onboard, and settled into your cabin."

"Fenris," she hedged, giving her lower lip a quick nip, "I don't want this to be a long goodbye…"

"Please, amatus," he shifted closer to her. "There are a few hours yet before you set sail." His voice held the emotional promise of what they had yet to achieve. Yet her heart was aching already, after all that had happened that evening, and the thought of sailing away from Kirkwall—from him—was close to the surface and threatening to break through and send her spiraling into hysterics.

"Tonight's been hard enough. We should just say something quick and…"

"I'll only see you to your cabin," he insisted, knowing it was a lie, knowing he had much more in mind than that. He swallowed, feeling slightly nervous, and then quickly squelched the feeling. There was nothing to feel nervous about. He'd been practicing lately, pushing the limits of his strange anxiety, testing the boundaries of how far he could go and what actions he could do before it triggered. And tonight, at long last, he felt willing and able to see matters through to the very end.

If only he could keep her from talking.

She must have sensed his need, because without a word she nodded, gave him a brave little smile, and started them walking once more towards the ship.

They boarded without incident, checked in with the purser, paid for Hrodwynn's fare, and found her assigned cabin. It was small, cramped, and brought back memories Fenris would rather not acknowledge.

"I've seen water closets larger than this," she sniffed, looking around. There was a small stool nailed to the floor in the corner near the door, and a strange sort of netting hanging from a hook in the next corner. Diagonally from the stool was a small shelf with a wash basin secured into it, and a chamber pot tucked away underneath. "And better equipped. But it's… cozy," she decided. She set her pack down on the stool and turned back to face him. He was still in the doorway, within arm's reach of her, and with a strange look on his face. "Fenris?"

He swallowed, suddenly thinking this wasn't such a good idea after all. But they had been stymied back home, in the mansion, all their failures piling up on top of each other, a stack of remembrances as intimidating and inhibiting as his amnesiac memory troubles. Tonight could be different. With a different location. And different emotions. And, hopefully, just different enough to allow for things to work.

"I'm remembering the last time I sailed. I stayed in a cabin about this size." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"When was that?" she asked, curious, looking for any excuse, any reason, to delay his departure. So much for not wanting a long goodbye, she thought sarcastically to herself.

"After I ran away from Danarius," he swallowed; he seemed to be doing that a lot tonight. Pushing away any unsavory thoughts, he quickly ended it with, "I'd stay away from anything fishy to eat if I were you, at least while out in the open water."

She smiled, thinking she knew now why he hated fish so much, the smell, the taste, the texture, all if it bringing back memories of the open sea, large waves, maybe a little motion sickness… But she wisely decided not to press for details. "I will."

He cleared his throat, looking for a reason, an excuse, anything that would keep him there just a moment longer, just until he could muster his flagging courage and make his attempt. He gazed around the cabin for inspiration, but she was right; it was not much larger than a closet.

"So, erm," she felt her heart begin to race, knowing the moment was drawing near, the moment when he would leave and she would stay and embark—literally—on her adventure. Desperate to keep him there just one moment longer, she cast about for an excuse for him to stay. "You've stayed onboard a ship before, so, um, any idea where they hide the bed? Or do I sleep on the floor?"

Fenris felt as if she had read his mind, handing him not only an excuse to remain there a little longer, but also a segue towards what he wished to accomplish tonight. He moved further into the cabin, really taking no more than a single step, and placed himself a hair's breadth from her. The lantern hung from the ceiling off to the side of their faces, casting their features half in light, half in shadow, half in familiarity, half in mystery. "Have you ever slept in a hammock before?"

"A… what?" she asked, bewildered, but glad she had found a reason for him to stay just a little longer. She watched as he reached around her, his nimble fingers—when had he taken off his gauntlets?—reaching towards that strange netting in the corner. He lifted one of a pair of metal hoops, the netting hanging between the hoops, and stretched the mesh diagonally across the cabin to a hook in the opposite corner. The mesh stretched between them, but somehow it didn't seem like it was cutting them off from each other, instead offering a sort of neutral ground for them to meet upon.

"Your bed, Messer," he teased, flourishing his hands in a grand gesture.

"You're joking," she countered. "I'm supposed to sleep on that? A fish net? Where's the pillow? Where're the blankets? Or the mattress, for that matter."

"The netting is the mattress. As for bedclothes, you're meant to bring your own, or do without," he answered. "Here, I'll show you. Hop up."

She stared at him another moment.

"Go on. I'll hold it steady for you." When she continued to look like she wouldn't budge, he insisted, "You're going to have to get used to this, sooner or later, might as well start now while there's someone here to show you how."

Her expression changed, hovering somewhere between disbelief and indulgence, but she gave in to his silly offer. "Alright, how do I, erm, mount it?"

The corner of his mouth twitched at her choice of words. "Easiest way, is to back into it. Turn around, there you go, and spread your arms out to either side, holding the hammock between your hands, spread it taught, very good, now," he leaned in close behind her, so close she wondered if he were already on the hammock himself, and wondered how he could have managed that. "Sit down."

She obeyed. The netting wobbled, back-and-forth, or side-to-side, whatever, but it wobbled and shook and reverberated up her arms, making her shake, throwing her off balance, and she gasped with alarm.

Then he was there, his hands over hers, steadying the swaying netting, allowing her to shift around until she found her balance. "Not bad," he hummed into her ear, and she felt the first shudder of desire sweep her body.

"Fenris?" she breathed, not sure what was happening, but fearing she knew and fearing it wouldn't work like all the other times and fearing they would part with this void still between them and fearing…

"Don't speak." His front was pressed against her back, his hands covering hers, entwining her fingers within the netting, his chin hovering over her shoulder, his hot breath fanning her cheek.

Don't speak, she repeated silently inside her head. But…

A thousand and one emotions were bursting inside her skull. Not the least of which were all those anxieties, all those failures, all those frustrations. Every time they had tried to make love, they had failed. For three years. Every time they let their emotions gain control, every time they let themselves feel, every time it was personal and loving and desirable, one or the other or even both of them had wondered and worried and questioned…

Blessed Andraste, she cursed herself. They had questioned, they had doubted, they had spoken and… what, ruined the mood? Created those doubts? Compounded them? Perhaps there might—just might—be something to that, some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, that as soon as the doubts were voiced, they were real. But, if instead, they were left unsaid, if she and Fenris only focused on each other, on their movements, on their sensations…

She stared over her shoulder at his lips, still parted after his last words: don't speak. Asking a woman not to speak was like asking the sun not to shine, or the wind not to blow. But she sensed his motives, and trusted his plan.

Tonight. Here. In this new place, without anything around to remind them of past difficulties. Tonight they could remain silent. Tonight they could leave the doubts to rest. Tonight they could focus on the strangeness and the newness and the unexplored.

She lifted her gaze upwards, just far enough to catch his eye staring at her with animalistic intensity in the swaying lantern light. It was now, or never…


	27. Bon Voyage

"Don't speak," Fenris commanded, feeling like his voice would break beneath the force of his insistence. Damn, he loved Hrodwynn, but she could find the most inappropriate things to say—and the most inopportune moments in which to say them. He knew she had doubts, he had them too, and was struggling to hold them at bay at that very moment, and if she said a single word…

He felt her breath catch in her lungs, felt her shudder before him, felt her fingers grip a little tighter, felt her face turn towards his. Her lips parted, and he prayed, Blessed Andraste he prayed no words would come out. And tonight, for this one night, his prayers were answered. The pink tip of her tongue swung out, slid across her front teeth and hovered in the corner of her lips closest to him. He watched her lift her gaze to his eyes, saw her bright green orbs sparkling in the swaying light of the lantern, and knew she would obey him.

Fasta vass, but she was beautiful, and alluring, and his body was already straining against his leggings. The thought of taking her right then, at that moment, rough and cruel and selfishly, nearly unmade him. His hands gripped a little tighter, forcing the flesh of her palms into the mesh of the hammock until he was sure there'd be indentations left behind in her tender skin. In return, she craned her neck a bit further and kissed him.

He moaned, a gentle sound, almost lost within the creaking of the ship. It was a sound full of hunger and need and longing and dearth. It was the sound of his soul, reaching for heaven, mired in the muck of the void, but unwilling to let go of dreaming, of hope, of faith. His grip lessened, pulling away only slightly, but she made no move to let go of the hammock. She was willing to play along, to follow his lead, to give him what he asked, to do as he commanded. And he would take full advantage of that.

Fenris wrenched his mouth away from hers, letting a gasping sigh escape his chest, registering her answering mewl of disappointment. He didn't give her long to mourn the absence of his lips, clamping down on the back of her neck, brushing aside the short strands of her hair as he felt with his lips up and down the top of her spine. She reacted as he predicted, gasping and wiggling, grinding her ass against his loins. Maker, but what a wonderful sensation. He could already envision those creamy curves, soft and rounded, rising and falling over and around his shaft.

He clenched his eyes tight, forcing the image from his mind before it drew him close—far too close—to coming. He held himself still, his only movements when he panted away his excess passion. Amazingly she drew still as well, following his lead, submissive—for once! When he was in control of himself again, he pressed a kiss into the corner of her neck in gratitude, and slid his hands up the outside of her arms.

Her tunic was cool and smooth, the midnight blue silky fabric sliding underneath his fingers, allowing him to feel the contours of her toned body beneath. He traced her biceps and triceps, continued on to give her shoulders a brief massage, before curving around her shoulder blades and reaching her sides. His fingers seemed to find every single swell and valley of her ribs as he slowly sank to her waist. She twitched, her breath catching in her throat, but she would not allow herself to give vent to the giggle.

His fingers lingered at her waistband a moment, but decided to hold off a little while longer, wanting to build and build and build the anticipation unit it became an undeniable force, an unstoppable inevitability, until any chance of his ruining it was taken irrevocably from his ability to affect. His fingers started up her torso, stroking her stomach, one tip finding and briefly delving into her navel. They lifted higher, thumbs to the outside while his fingers curved and cupped her breasts. She gave a little moan, leaning against him, laying her head on his shoulder. It exposed her neck, her beautiful creamy white neck, and he found himself staring at her fluttering pulse while his fingers played. The cool fabric of her tunic was thin and did nothing to hide her reaction; the fact that she didn't wear any undergarments beneath only aided his cause. Her skin was overflowing with gooseflesh, her nipples tiny little pebbles, her breath deep and husky and fanning the tip of his ear.

Blessed Andraste, but he held heaven in his hands.

Hrodwynn was finding it hard: hard to remain unmoving, hard to remain quiet, hard to remain focused. His hands, with those unbelievably long fingers, knew too damn well where to touch her. And how to touch her. For three years, despite their problems and obstacles, they had managed to have some limited success. All that time he had been studying her body, learning her triggers, exploring her mysteries. And Fenris, if anything, was a studious man.

When her nipples felt so tight, she feared they were about to burst, he finally let off his torment. One hand stroked upwards, towards her neck, while the other swept downwards to her stomach. The fingers at her neck applied pressure, gently, but enough to let her know she should move her head, tilt it, shift it, follow his suggestions. As soon as she did so, his lips covered hers, laying down like a blanket, warm and soft and comforting. She moaned, all her longing and love and need pouring into that small sound, so inadequate for the task.

Fenris sank his tongue into her mouth, delving past those lips, imagining he was pressing past a different pair of lips. One hand still gripped her neck, holding her to him, while the other dropped lower, ever lower, until he found the juncture of her legs. He could feel her heat and her moisture, even through the fabric of her leggings, growing more pronounced by the heartbeat. His fingers hovered over where those other lips were, hesitating only a moment, not out of fear or any anxiety, but because he enjoyed teasing her.

He felt her body tremble before him, ever so slightly, reverberating along the hammock, and his hand pressed down. She gasped, as he expected, her body arcing and jerking and causing the hammock to sway violently. He didn't let go, nor did he let up, his fingers stroking her through the thick fabric of her leggings, his tongue doing to her mouth what his fingers should be doing if only she were unclothed. He felt her breath stagger through her nose and he pressed harder. He felt her face try to pull away, but his hand moved to cup her jaw and hold her fast. He felt her hands let go of the hammock, her fingernails bite into the flesh of his hand, her voice hum with warning into his mouth, yet he would not relent. She gave one final struggle against her fate, one last groan and shove, but his hands held her captive, one keeping her face a prisoner of his mouth, one keeping her womanhood a prisoner of his fingers.

At last she surrendered.

There was always that pause, that moment of stillness, that breath of quiet, like the calm before the storm. And then the storm would strike. Their mouths were pressed to tightly together, that when she gasped with her pleasure, she sucked the air from his lungs. Their bodies, too, were so close there was hardly any room for their clothes. Her only leverage was the hammock which was more a handicap than a help. It swayed beneath the force of her passion, rocking her even harder against him, at a perfect level to keep her bouncing on his loins.

If only she was facing the other way around.

But Fenris wouldn't allow it, not yet, not until he was sure there could be no stopping it. Oh, he would show her pleasure tonight, as many times as he could manage, but for himself there would be only that one time, that one last time, when there could be no going back, no denial, no failure.

Her rocking stopped, her spasms slowing to stillness, and he eased back ever so slightly, his mouth allowing her to breathe once more, his fingers allowing her to rest. She sighed, contentedly, perhaps a little selfishly, letting herself enjoy the afterglow, reveling in the last few reverberations before her orgasm faded to quiet. She grew lax in his arms, supported completely by him, trusting completely in him, placing herself wholly within his mercy. And he patiently waited for her to return to him.

While he waited, he studied her, his eyes devouring her features, the dark red brows eased and relaxed, the creamy cheekbones dyed a delicate passion pink, the agreggio pavali lips moist and swollen thanks to his abuse. He watched as her long dark eyelashes, thick and curved like a crescent shaped moon, began to flutter as her lids attempted to open. He saw her eyes, the brilliant emerald orbs, become slowly revealed to him, saw them unfocused and over-bright, saw them grasp onto and then recognize his features. She looked like she was about to say something, but at the last moment she remembered his request. Instead one hand reached up to his face, cupping his cheek, pulling him down for a kiss.

He should have paid attention to the other hand.

Hrodwynn did not like being outdone. What he had done, what she had just experienced, was far too one-sided for her liking. Oh, sure, that hadn't stopped her from enjoying herself, but she wanted him to feel pleasure as well. While she distracted him with a kiss, her other hand reached down and stroked him, from tip to base, through the tough leather of his leggings. He was swollen, swollen and hard and fit to burst. He hissed at her touch, though not out of pain. He hissed and pulled his hips back and broke off their kiss. His dark green eyes stared at her with reproach, with warning, and she stared back unrepentantly. He made a soft snorting sort of sound, gave his head a little shake, but still he did not speak. He did move, however, moved his hands to her hips, speaking with his actions rather than his voice, encouraging her to hop off of the hammock and stand.

As soon as she was on her feet, his hands slipped away. She took the opportunity to quickly duck around the hammock to his side of the cabin. She didn't want any barriers between them tonight—mental or physical. And apparently he was of the same mind, or at least he didn't protest her move, allowing her to come up and stand before him, front to front, toe to toe, eye to eye. That they were so similar in height sometimes made her feel awkward, as if she were a bit small for a human, but not tonight. Tonight, she was the perfect height for him, and he for her, their lips on a level, able to kiss without one of them having to crane their neck or the other to stand on tiptoe. Instead they could stand there, relaxed, comfortable, and simply savor the feel of a kiss.

As they were doing now.

Fenris felt their lips mashed together, the muscles mouthing around and with each other. Their tongues wrestled wetly, a lingual fencing without words, a cooperation for domination between two equals. Yet he wasn't so far lost in their kiss that he didn't notice her fingers when they began tugging lightly at his upper arms. She was trying to undo the fastenings of his armor, working on removing his shoulder spaulders. He pulled off from their kiss, and couldn't help but notice—and love—the little pout that formed over those wine-red, bow-shaped rims surrounding her mouth. He smiled a little, merely a quick twitch or tic at the corner of his own mouth, and held his arms out to his sides, granting her easier access to the straps and their tiny buckles.

She couldn't believe her rotten luck. Hrodwynn prided herself on the quickness of her fingers, the lightness of her touch; that Fenris had discovered her actions so quickly made her want to blush with embarrassment. But at least he didn't dissuade her. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the buckles, not hindered in the least by the smallness of the clasps, or the tightness of the straps, or the closeness of the fittings. In hardly more than a few heartbeats she had the first one loosened enough to guide its sliding off his arm. She set it carefully next to the stool, not wanting to just let it fall to the floor and make a racket. The second spaulder soon joined the first, and she immediately moved on to his chestplate.

He watched her, amused. She was determined, acting with purpose and motive, moving from item to item, from spaulders to chestplate to belt to… He inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the force of his breath, pressing himself further into her touch. She had opened the front of his tunic, opened it and spread it wide, her fingers expanding over his skin. She touched him, touched skin and lyrium alike, uncaring of the markings and wanting only to feel HIS flesh. He hissed from the sting, the ungentle tingle of the markings being touched, and loved her for it, loved her because she didn't purposely seek them out as Danarius had done. She ignored them, ignored the lyrium and instead paid attention to the man.

She felt his reaction to her touch and had to smile a little. Though she was still dubious regarding the whole pleasure-and-pain concept, she could accept that it worked for him. But she had other ideas. She bent her head down and flicked the tip of her tongue across his nipple. He hissed again, this time with pure pleasure, his fingers fisting the short strands of her hair to keep her in place. She allowed it, taking her time, toying with the little pip and making it grow harder and smaller, as he had done to her just a few moments prior. She could feel his breathing growing labored as he drew close to that line, that line between holding off and indescribable ecstasy. She moved to the other side, wanting to remain fair and give the other as much attention as she had given the one. She felt him tug on her head, not to bring her away, but in trying to keep up, and she knew. She knew he was losing himself in the sensations, in the moment, in the act.

She didn't want to break off, she didn't want to stop making him feel so good, but his tugging turned insistent. With a wet pop that sounded entirely too loud in the small cabin, she let go of his now very hard nipple and straightened up. The next moment he was kissing her again, hard, his hand still holding her hair, holding her to him. Her hands were still holding his tunic, the fabric bunched between her fingers, halfway pulled off his shoulders. She gave a little shove, and when he didn't acknowledge her, she gave another shove, not quite as little this second time. He gave a sort of huffing acknowledgement through his nose and, without breaking off their kiss, allowed her to push the fabric off of first one shoulder, then the other.

He wanted to keep his fingers in her hair, loving the soft and short strands, the way they curved and tickled the backs of his fingers. But she had him shirtless now, and he wanted to keep them even. He reluctantly let go of her hair, thankful when she didn't pull away, and let his hands drop gently to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He allowed his fingers to linger there a moment, stroking tiny circles into her skin, through her tunic, making her tremble. Then his hands fell lower, the tips of his fingers following the bumps and ridges of her spine, making her tremble turn to a shudder.

At long last his hands found her waistband, but if she thought her torture was over, she was wrong. He ran his fingers slowly around the top of her leggings, from back to side to front. He lingered there a moment, somewhere between her navel and her hair, and she moaned into their kiss. He smiled back, just that self-satisfied smirk, but she could feel the tug at the corner of his mouth, even with her eyes closed.

He pulled on the fabric, gently, slightly, not enough to free it of her waistband, but enough to make it bulge and gape down the front. Then his fingers moved around, closer to her sides, nothing further than a fraction of an inch, and gave another little tug.

Oh, Blessed Andraste, she thought to herself, if he drew this out any slower, he'd be coming with her to Minrathous. But that thought did not encourage her to make him quicken his pace. She kept herself still as he continued his deliberate, minuscule, and lethargic undressing of her torso—well, almost still. They did continue to kiss, and her hands were on his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and bulge beneath her touch he he worked to get her tunic off. It was too tempting, she couldn't help but stroke him a little, shift her fingers to cover the shifting muscles, savoring the play of his long and lean body.

Fenris reached her spine again, but this time he pulled a little harder, and a little more, and the hem of the tunic came free. She gasped, feeling the cool air strike her heated skin for a moment before his hands were there, touching her skin and sharing his warmth with her. He worked around to her front, his hands following the bottom edge of her ribcage, his forearms pulling more and more of her tunic free. By the time he was cupping her breasts again, the fabric was hanging from his elbows, no longer tucked into her leggings.

She felt his hands slide upwards, and for a moment regretted their leaving her breasts. But he was pulling her tunic off, up and away from her torso until it caught at her shoulders. She giggled a little, having seen this problem coming and his accompanying consternation, but lifted her arms to oblige him. That was a mistake.

Once he had her raising her arms, it didn't take much for him to bunch and twist her tunic, tangling the fabric around her arms, keeping them secured and raised above her head. She gave a startled sort of sound, something like a protest, but he didn't hesitate. The next moment he tipped her backwards, his arms around her to guide her, but she was going to lie down on the hammock. Without much of a fight, he soon had her positioned the way he wanted, lying on her back, her legs towards him, her arms hanging off the other side.

Hrodwynn managed to duck her chin through the neck of the tunic, far enough for her to breathe, at any rate. She shifted and wiggled a bit more, trying to pull the tunic off her arms and free the rest of her face. Suddenly she felt the heat of Fenris' body hovering over her, the hammock swaying as he braced himself with one arm, the other going to her arms and retying the fabric. Apparently, he wanted her restrained. She gasped at the concept, her pulse racing, her mind wondering what it would be like to lie there, unable to use her arms, to touch him, unable to even see what he was doing. Her nipples instantly hardened at the thought, and heat flooded her face—from her neck to her hairline—over how eagerly her body began to anticipate trying such a thing.

This time, she didn't move when he took his hand away.

She was somewhat thankful for the fabric covering half her face. She could lie there and pretend, pretend it wasn't her body that was growing so hot and tight, and so passive and obedient to another's bidding. Pretend it wasn't Fenris who was removing her boots, or at least that it wasn't the Fenris who had been having so much trouble as of late. No, the man who held her captive, the man who was slowly undressing her, peeling her leggings off like a second skin, this man—this Fenris—was someone new and unknown and had never experienced any failures or difficulties. This Fenris, when he touched her, it was as if he touched her for the first time.

When his lips joined hers, it was as if he tasted her for the first time.

She bucked, not having expected such an intimate touch so quickly, not at the slow rate he had been going. A cry escaped her, not one of alarm but one of… warning? Expectancy? Anticipation? It was hard to narrow down the emotion, so she gave up trying, her mind quickly over inundated with other sensations.

Her arms bound, her eyes covered, even her ears muffled slightly—without anything else to focus on, it was as if the sensation of touch became more heightened, more pronounced, more, well, sensitive. Other things became more sensitive as well. She could feel his tongue, the thick and wet muscle, lap up and down the sides of her pussy, stroking her lips still swollen from earlier. When he delved below to tickle the ring of her ass, she twitched and pulled away. When he gave long and hard strokes into the tender creases where her thighs met her abdomen, she hummed and pressed against him. When he rose up to circle and tease the tiny bud hidden beneath her dark curly red hair, she felt her whole body turn to goo.

Too quickly he left off, leaving her practically dripping wet, open and exposed and needy and un-sated. Her legs dangled helplessly, her body slowly writhing, undulating like a snake, instinctively seeking that one thing that could fulfill her, complete her, finish and unmake her.

She heard a breathy sort of laugh floating above her head, barely penetrating the muffling around her ears, and she knew he was teasing her. Damn him. Yet she was enjoying it; there was no denying that!

Fenris paused to study his work in progress. That she was becoming aroused was undeniable; it had to be, even to her usual level of stubbornness. Her skin was beginning to coat with a light film of sweat. Her breasts, topped with their tiny nubs, rose and fell beneath forceful breaths. Her lips were swollen and bruised from their passion, both sets of them. And her whole body was malleable beneath his touch.

As if to prove his point, he gripped the underside of her thighs and lifted her legs up, spreading them wide, and then let go. She wavered a moment, so fractional that it might have been more the swaying of the hammock than her immediate rejection of his positioning her. But she kept her pose, as well as she could, despite it leaving her so exposed, so vulnerable. He hummed in approval, gave each nipple a brief and teasing nip with his lips, and pulled away.

Hrodwynn couldn't tell where he'd gone. He had to still be in the cabin, though she couldn't be certain of that as she could no longer feel the heat of his body. Nor could she be sure she could have heard it if the door had opened and closed, trussed up as she was, arms caught in her tunic, legs spread wide and welcoming. She blushed again, unable to believe that she was letting him do this to her, but felt thankful for once that the fabric covered enough of her face—her blush might go unnoticed.

Then she felt him again, the heat from him, at any rate, coming from up near her head and arms, radiating through the silky fabric. She closed her mouth and swallowed, wondering what might happen next. He didn't leave her in limbo for long. His hands touched to either side of her, near her shoulders, and somehow shifted the edge of the hammock, perhaps rolling it up or something, but her head was no longer supported. It lolled back before she caught herself, tucking in her chin and trying to keep her head lifted. Then his hands were on her forehead, his body heat passing through the fabric and almost searing her flesh, pushing her to let her head hang down.

Or, rather, upside-down. Her arms now dangled towards the floor, her head following, her neck stretched and her mouth as open as the rest of her. Something he took advantage of. She immediately knew what it was he pressed against her lips, the musky masculine scent going straight to her head. She opened her mouth even further, taking it in, taking him in, as deep as she could.

At the same time, he bent forwards over her body and settled his face between her legs.

Oh, Maker! she wanted to moan. She still felt completely vulnerable, completely being taken advantage of, being used, but she was also being rewarded for her passivity. It wasn't fair, making her feel as if she was taking all the enjoyment, all the pleasure, even if she was the one restrained and manipulated…

Oh, fuck it, she let off trying to think, trying to figure it out. She and Fenris were together, they were having incredible sex, and they were both enjoying themselves. What more could she ask for?

Gravity finally took effect, her tunic falling free, first from her face to catch at her elbows, then further to bunch around her wrists, then after an encouraged flick and flex of her hands, the silky tunic settled onto the floor with a soft whisper, a sound easily drowned out by their gentle moans and muffled sighs. She let herself sway there for a moment longer, holding onto the fading memory of her submissiveness, before her arms flexed again and her hands groped his ass.

Fenris grunted, surprised by her sudden grip—not having noticed the tunic coming off—and reflexively he thrust away from her hands. Unfortunately, such an act almost made her gag. He stopped himself, gave a sound like half a laugh, and lifted himself up onto his elbows. Then slowly he pulled himself away from her mouth, her hands allowing him escape though not easily, spreading his cheeks wide, a happenstance he did not find unpleasant. He drew it out, pausing now and then, letting her readjust her grip if she chose, letting her give him a little payback. But it was time, once again, to change it up. Keep it new. Keep it fresh.

She sucked hard, her fingers pressing into his flesh hard as well, but he eventually popped free of her mouth, the tip bouncing against her nose once for good measure. She snorted at that but didn't comment, remembering her unspoken promise to remain silent. Besides, he was close; she could tell he was close from the salty-tangy taste that lingered on her tongue. She briefly thought about turning tables on him, holding him down and finishing him off, getting him back for making her come in her leggings, but then pushed the thought aside. Yes, it was tempting, and it would serve him right, but she sensed he had—at most—one chance to get this right tonight, and she would much rather have him finish between a different set of lips, than those enclosing her mouth.

Speaking of which, she watched him walk around her, ducking beneath a corner of the hammock, to stand before her still open legs. As if only then noticing her continued vulnerability, she bent her knees and pulled her feet in to brace on the hammock. She remained willing, but not quite so wanton. Then his hands here on her thighs, not forcing her but asking her, asking her to please stay where she was, to let her knees fall to the sides, to allow him unrestricted access of her most inner places.

She also braced herself up on her elbows, the hammock unrolling itself to give her a little more stability and support behind her shoulders. He stood before her, facing her, as naked as she; which she supposed she should have expected, given what they had just been doing. Then again, he might have kept his pants on and just removed his member from the clothing… She mentally shook the silly and irrelevant thought from her mind, to find him staring at her, watching her, studying her. As he stood there, she returned his stare, attempting to speak with her eyes, to let him know how close and ready and needy and putty-in-his-hands-but-he-better-not-wait-too-long-because-she-was-so-needy…

She threw her head back, wanting to cry out the pleasure was so intense, but caught her voice in her throat and choked it into silence. Oh, Blessed Andraste, how she loved this sensation, the feel of his length, plunging deeply into her, exposing her and sealing her to him, all at the same time. His first thrust was hard, forceful, penetrating, burying himself balls-deep, rocking the hammock back and bouncing her with the pressure. But he didn't continue the movement, he didn't pull away, holding himself as far inside her as he could manage.

For a moment, she feared. For a moment, she questioned. They had rarely made it this far; either he only managed a thrust or two before growing limp, or he suffered one of his memory episodes. She lifted her head to look up at him, curious and anxious as to what she would find. But written on the features of his face was not the humiliation of flagging, something she should have been able to confirm if she had only taken a moment to consider matters. Neither was "the other Fenris"—as she called him—there on his face, the Fenris from before the lyrium, the Fenris that seemed to only exist in some sort of trance or semi-somnolent state. No, tonight, in this cabin, with her departure looming near…

Tonight, Fenris stood there, eyes closed, face composed even if slightly strained and sweaty, simply enjoying the sensations he was experiencing, the fact that he was fully entwined with the woman he loved.

She eased the worry and questions from her own features, lest he should see her concerns once he opened his eyes and it made everything spiral out of control…

She bit her lip and dropped her head back again, letting go of any negative thoughts, of any thoughts of negative thoughts. She was one with the man she loved; everything was right with the world.

Fenris was unaware of Hrodwynn's thoughts, struggling with his own. He was amazed, to put it simply. He had feared, he had planned, he had practiced, he had anticipated… but no matter how much preparation one does beforehand, one never truly knows what one will encounter in any situation until one, well, experiences that situation. And here, now, in this situation, he was experiencing far less difficulty than he had anticipated. And he wasn't sure how to handle that.

He had thought to distract himself with pushing the boundaries of Hrodwynn's personal comfort; they had never tried anything remotely like even the lightest bondage before, after all, and he had no idea how—or if—she would enjoy it. He had paid attention to her, focused on her sounds and movements, ready to stop at the first sign of her distress, and had done that so keenly that he had managed to avoid any of his usual pitfalls or discomforts.

Right up to this point. And past it, apparently. He amazed himself, standing there, feeling the entire length of him enveloped within her, both tight and soft at the same time. He wallowed in it, reveled in it, savored and lingered and relished it. Selfishly he didn't want it to end. But he knew, they couldn't stay like this forever. He'd had to move, eventually.

He opened his eyes, a minimal movement, but he told himself it was movement nonetheless. He saw her just as he had left her, fingers gripping the netting, toes curled on nothing but air, her head thrown back with her own bliss. He smiled and leaned forwards, rocking the hammock a little, his hands landing inches from hers. She sensed the movement and lifted her head just in time to meet his lips. They kissed, like before, slow and equal and sharing, neither one sensing any sort of distress or nervousness in the other. Then he broke off the kiss and leaned back up.

If she was going to wonder what he might be up to next, she wasn't given enough time. He stood there straight and tall and, with that tug at the corner of his mouth, he thrust his hips. And she bounced. It made her gasp, a tiny sound, the thrust forcing her off of him just a little before the hammock swung her back down onto him. She was surprised, though not by the fact that he was watching her closely to see if she liked or disliked it. She was surprised at herself, at her reaction, at the way she tightened and tingled. At the way she bounced.

He was surprised at the way she bounced, too, or perhaps fascinated was a better term. Though not as lush as some women, say like Isabela, Hrodwynn was fairly well proportioned, her breasts an easy handful for him. And her young body was so healthy and toned, her breasts gave a very interesting countermovement to his thrust. He lifted his eyes from them to briefly study her face, wondering what she might be thinking, wondering if he could continue this bouncing, perhaps try to syncopate his thrusts to it. She must have had the same thought, because she began shaking her head and pulling one hand free of the netting. Before she could voice her protest, however, he gave another thrust.

All thought fled from her head, his thrust this time sending her a little further away from him, and subsequently swinging back a little harder. And then, of course, there was the delayed bounce as her breasts played catch-up. She moaned, part pleasure, part surprise, part embarrassment, and saw for an answer a twinkling in his eye and heard a brief rumble of a chuckle in his chest. She rolled her eyes, gasping again the next moment when he thrust. Again. And again.

He took hold of the edge of the hammock closest to him, adjusting it, making the angle and the height a little easier for him. Then he began in earnest. Hrodwynn found herself unable to do much more than hang on for dear life, lest he pound her right off the far edge. Her fingers turned red and white, entangled as they were in the netting. Her breath staggered and stumbled beneath the force of his thrusts. Yet he wasn't going to stop, not now that he found his rhythm, not now that he was having so much success. And, quite honestly, she didn't want him to. She knew he was going to push it, for as far as he could, as long as he could, and the longer he kept this going, well, something quite interesting was building up inside her.

Fenris found himself easily distracted. All parts of her seemed to be moving at different places and different paces, a fluidity of motion that he found fascinating. Even though every single pore of his body was sweating, even though his muscles began to tremble with the exertion, even though the hot knot of heat was beginning to build, somewhere between his spine and his groin, he couldn't stop. Her breathy little whimpers of pleasure. Her body tight and moist. The easy way he slid in and out, she slid up and down.

He felt her first tremble, and it was almost too much. He pulled himself out, standing back and away from her so suddenly she felt a chill, her juices cooling almost instantly on her swollen and reddened lips. She convulsed, her stomach contracting, trying to curl in on herself, on him, but he was no longer inside her. As she fell back against the hammock, a sound tore itself out of her throat, angry and hurt and desperate and empty and…

Then his lips were there, lips and tongue and teeth, where that other part of him had been just a moment before. She moaned, a hand finding his head, nearly ripping out the roots of his hair as she gripped him and held him fast. He didn't protest, he didn't resist, he used his tongue where a moment before he had used his shaft. He heard a sound, a strangled sort of moan, as she struggled to keep quiet. Then it happened. For the second time that night.

He rode out this storm as well, held fast against her thanks to her hand in his hair. He managed to turn his face far enough so he could gasp a breath through his nose. Other than that, he remained where she needed him, tasting her flowing into his mouth, spilling down his chin, sweet and clear like nectar. When at last her legs grew lax, when at last her fingers released him, when at last the final tremble had faded away, he pulled back, a very satisfied smile on his face.

Lucky for him, Hrodwynn didn't see or she might have had a very nasty name to call him.

By the time she came back to herself, by the time she found her breath, by the time she could focus her eyes, he had wiped off his chin and regained his feet. He hovered over her, checking her from head to toe to see that she was alright, to see that she hadn't hurt her fingers twisting them in the netting, or strained her neck dangling off the edge, or anything of the sort. She seemed fine, a little flushed, which was to be expected, and a determined sort of light in her eyes, which was also to be expected. He sighed, knowing he'd have to give in eventually, but also knowing the longer he could hold it off…

She reached out, caught his shoulders, pulling him down towards her. No, there was no more waiting, no more holding off, no more stalling. The night was passing, the time coming soon when the ship would set sail; there was always that deadline hanging over his head, adding pressure he didn't need. He deliberately put that thought out of his mind and answered her with a kiss. Then, with one of his arms snaking beneath her shoulders, he pivoted her on the hammock so that she lay lengthwise.

She didn't resist, following his nudges and prompts as she had before, until she was positioned the way he wanted her. She watched him, her eyes full of the questions she didn't voice, but he no longer seemed to be stalling. Instead he joined her on the hammock, sending it swinging, making their bodies rock and sway in a calming and soothing sort of motion.

He lined himself up, and then bent down to kiss her.

Hrodwynn gave in to the kiss, tasting herself on his tongue and blushing again. But this time his intent didn't appear to be to embarrass her or put her at a disadvantage. His kiss was thorough, descending into her mouth with the intent of exploring it, claiming it, keeping it for his own. She knew then that this would be the last time, that when he entered her again it would be to finish, that he wanted to remember this for the whole time she was gone.

That he wanted this to work.

She answered him, the only way she could without using words. She kissed him back, as thoroughly and as intimately as she could. She ran her fingers over his body, heedless of the lyrium, her fingers mapping and memorizing each swell of flexed muscle, each valley between. She traced lines in the sweat she found on his skin, seeming to brand him with her touch as Danarius had branded him with the lyrium. When he bent down to suckle at her breast, she arched her back. When he lifted one of her legs over his hip, she lifted the other to match. When he pulled back, when he held himself just outside, when he looked down at her with such a longing, such a haunted expression—she entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for another kiss.

His penetration was almost too smooth, too well lubricated, too quick and easy. He exhaled sharply, a warning sort of sound, and kept himself very still. It was hard for her, so very hard, her body already wanting to thrum with sensation, but she remained quiet and still with him. And when his breath was steady once more, when he began to move, she matched his rhythm.

It was slow, building, nothing like the forceful thrusts before. This might have been considered timid, something very out of character for Fenris, but also something very tender and special and just between them. The hammock swayed with them, making for a somewhat slantways kind of movement, or illusion of movement, but it wasn't unpleasant. She kept her eyes open this time and watched his face, watched him sink deeper into arousal, watched him shudder and moan as his passion built.

Her own passion built, too, yet again—much to her surprise. Something about the angle, about the way their bodies rubbed and caught against each other, was also rubbing and catching against that tiny little bud. It still amazed her how one fairly minuscule part of her anatomy could so completely, and so quickly, take control of her entire self, body and soul. Her breath grew staggered, her eyes began to glaze, and she knew if this went on for much longer…

He heard the change in her breathing, recognized it for what it was, and couldn't help the smirk, knowing it was he and he alone who did this to her, who made her feel this way, who brought her to such infinite heights. That prideful line of thought proved too dangerous for him to follow.

Now it was his turn for his breath to change, becoming panting, voiceless little moans. He felt that white hot knot tighten up inside him again, and fought to hold it at bay, savoring the denial, making it build to tsunami levels. A growl started somewhere deep inside his lungs, something feral and dangerous, but directed at himself, intimidating himself to hold it back just a little longer. He looked down, his eyes focusing on the face beneath him, watching her move under the force of his thrusts, feeling her tighten almost painfully around him. She gasped, becoming very still, and then…

As soon as he felt her first shudder, as soon as her back arched and allowed him even deeper access, as soon as she let go of that heavy sigh, he too was lost. He fell against her face, his mouth trying to cover hers, spilling a kiss into her mouth as he spilled his seed into her belly. His thrusts were hard and quick and pounding and mindless and animalistic and unstoppable. He rode it out, far longer than he should have probably, until he felt the sting of sensitivity along his length, until he felt her tense with her own tenderness. Only then did he slow his pace to a halt. Only then did he lift his face far enough to allow them breath. Only then did he wring the final drop of pleasure from this shared moment.

A shared moment. The thought was staggering. He'd done it. They'd done it. From beginning to end, they'd made it through, just once, just this once, but that proved it possible. He opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them, and lifted his head off of her chest.

Hrodwynn was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. In all his years. In all his travels. And she belonged to him. She must have sensed his eyes on her, or felt his head lift, because her own eyes began to flutter open.

"No," he whispered, reaching up to kiss first one eye lid, then the other, closed. "No, do not move. Do not open your eyes."

His voice was velvet against her ears, warm and soft, making her want to curl up in those husky tones and doze. And she may have, for a moment or more, it was hard to tell. Yet the time did come, the time she feared, he feared, the time that they could not avoid.

It was when his body pulled away, when the hammock swayed, when she sensed he was standing up, that she made a small sound and reached for him.

"No," he repeated, breathing the words into the air, "Stay still. Stay asleep. Let me remember you, just like this, while you are away."

With her eyes closed, she didn't anticipate his fingers would touch her cheek. They did, however, and her lids fluttered with her startled feeling. But she did not open them. She feigned sleep, however badly she longed to open her eyes and drink in the sight of him and sear his form into her memories…

Noises reached her ears, and she risked a peek to see him bent over trying to quickly shimmy into his leggings. She closed her eyes again, satisfied with that sight, a tiny and private smile playing on her lips at her indiscretion. She continued to listen to the sounds of him getting dressed, the creaking of his belt as he wrapped it around his waist, the clacking of his spaulders as he settled them on his shoulders. Then all too soon it grew quiet.

His fingers on her cheek one last time, stroking the still flushed skin, his breath fanning her lips before he placed a kiss on them. Then he was moving away. The floor creaked beneath his bare feet, the hinges on the door also with rust from the sea air. She found herself holding her breath, wondering if he would at the last moment change his mind and come with her. But that was not to be. He spoke one last word into the cabin, just loud enough to reach her ears.

"Amatus."

"Fen."

She had answered just as softly, and almost immediately, but the door closed so swiftly behind his profession of love, she couldn't be sure he had heard her.


	28. Alone

"YOU try talking with him, Hawke," Aveline groused, upset enough to bump the mage's shoulder as she moved past him, "I'm through!"

Hawke spun with the movement, turning halfway around and allowing himself to watch the Captain of the City Guard storm out of the main hall in Fenris' squatter mansion. He didn't try to speak, he didn't even try to stop her, simply standing there and staring until he heard the slam of the front door. Only then did he finish turning back around to see Fenris, leaning over the head of the table, a pair of notes spread out between his hands. "What was that all about? Did she finally find out about your gambling with her husband, Donnic?"

"We don't gamble," Fenris quickly denied, not bothering to spare Hawke a glance, "We play cards and drink wine and talk, but I deny any money exchanges hands. And, no, that's not why she's mad… this time."

Hawke made a sound of disbelief, crossing his toned arms over his chest, his sleeveless tunic designed precisely to show off said muscles. But he wasn't there to use his charms on Fenris; he was there because he was still trying to patch things up between the elf and Anders—before Hrodwynn's return. A daunting task, and one he didn't savor, but the estrangement was surprisingly hurting Anders, and for Anders' sake he would do anything… he would storm the Golden City itself for that man. "So, why is she mad, this time?"

Fenris finally looked up from his study, although briefly, to blink at Hawke. He was already staring at the pages once more as he answered, "Because I asked her to find out something, and she did, and I don't believe her answer."

Hawke hummed, coming up to the table and take a peek at the letters, "Can't imagine why she would be upset about that."

Fenris started again, looking up at Hawke, and though the man's face remained neutral, there was a twinkle in those warm amber orbs that told Fenris he was being teased. "Yes, well, perhaps that does sound like I'm being unreasonable," he dropped his gaze, giving his head a slow shake, his hands making claws to either side of the notes, "But I KNOW something is wrong!"

"Where have I heard that one before?" Hawke mused beneath his breath. He hadn't gone there to become embroiled in a side adventure, no matter how little, but apparently he didn't have a choice. "Alright, start at the beginning. What's this all about?"

The tension in Fenris' shoulders eased ever so slightly, the elf was so grateful for the offer of assistance, but that was the only outward sign he gave of his relief. Very briefly, very minimally, he filled Hawke in on the plan he and Hrodwynn had hatched to find his sister and restore his memory. He concluded with the ship from Minrathous that had arrived in port that morning—the ship that was supposed to have Hrodwynn and his sister as passengers.

"And what did Aveline find out about this ship?"

"That it did come from Minrathous," Fenris answered, "And that there was a woman who disembarked, an elvish woman, with red hair."

"A redheaded elf? Nothing about a redheaded human?"

Fenris nodded darkly. "Now you see my concern. Hrodwynn was supposed to meet my sister, Varania, at a tavern in Minrathous and then bring her here to Kirkwall. But why would she take Varania to the Hanged Man, instead of here to my mansion? And why did no one see her, they only saw the elf? And then there are these notes?"

"I was wondering when we'd get around to those…" Hawke drawled, but Fenris continued to ignore his droll remarks.

"I know Hrodwynn's handwriting, I learned alongside her for three years, I watched it develop. This note here," he gestured to the one on the left, "This note sent from Minrathous, that says she's arrived safe and will meet Varania first thing in the morning, then check in with Varric's contacts. This note was written by Hrodwynn; I'm sure of it! Just as I'm sure this note here," his hand swept over the note on the right, "This note that asks me to meet them at the Hanged Man, this note is a forgery. A clever one, but a forgery nonetheless."

"Alright," he leaned in a little closer. He knew Fenris had a great skill for distrust and disbelief, but he was willing to humor the man, if only to get him to calm down, "Convince me. Why is the second note a forgery? The handwriting looks the same to me. Sloppy. Scrawled. The occasional word scratched out…"

"None of the e's are backwards."

That got his attention. Hawke's neck nearly snapped, he turned so suddenly to look back down at the two notes. And Fenris was right. In the first note, nearly half the time the letter e was drawn backwards. In the second note, not a single e was backwards. "Maybe she finally learned to draw them the right way?"

"She couldn't in the three years we've been learning," Fenris argued, "I don't see how she could have in just three weeks."

"Four," he countered, "But who's counting?" It was a rhetorical question, but he for one had been counting the weeks, wondering where Hrodwynn had gone, and why, and when she would return. Anders had been counting as well, though the selfish git wouldn't admit it, still holding on to his hurt over Hrodwynn's 'betrayal' while at the same time almost making himself sick with worry for her.

And he knew Fenris had been counting, too, and now he knew the reason why. He also knew that, now that the waiting was over, it would be just like Fenris to find some excuse as to why things would be going wrong. And yet… "Let me get this straight. You sent Hrodwynn to Tevinter…"

"I didn't force her."

"…to look for your sister," Hawke ignored the interruption; they could argue semantics later. "A ship arrives from Tevinter with said sister…"

"I don't know that it's Varania…"

"With a woman on board whom we're assuming is your sister," he hastily amended, "But there's no Hrodwynn with her. Only this note, which must be a clever forgery, because why would Hrodwynn send you a note asking you to meet them at the Hanged Man, rather than bringing your sister straight here?"

"It doesn't feel right…"

"What's not feeling right? Something working out for once? You finally get to meet your long-lost sister, which is too good to be true, so of course something must go wrong…"

"Damnit, Hawke! I'm not imagining this!" Fenris snarled, his lyrium flaring into white-hot intensity, his hands threatening to tear the parchments to shreds. "There is something wrong here, something very wrong, and I…" he stopped suddenly as he struggled to regain control of himself, "…I need your help. Come with me. To the Hanged Man. Maybe, maybe Hrodwynn did try harder, in this second note, to draw her e's the right way. Maybe Varania wants to meet me on neutral ground, like the Hanged Man, rather than here in my home. Then again," his dull green eyes implored, "Maybe there is something more to this, something else going on, after all. After all these years, after all this time, I don't dare let my guard down now. I simply can't. Come with me. Please?"

For some reason, Fenris felt very little if any relief when Hawke agreed to join him. This was wrong—this was all wrong—and he knew it.

* * *

This was wrong, Hrodwynn thought to herself, so wrong, oh so very very wrong…

It wasn't the sound of his footfalls that alerted her, because he never made a sound.

It wasn't even the vibration through the ground because, again, his footfalls were so light.

It wasn't even the glow, the faint bluish-white light, that shone almost as bright as the sun in the otherwise pitch black darkness, because her eyes were sometimes closed whenever she became alerted to his presence.

But she knew he was coming for her. She opened her eyes, she saw that light growing stronger, and she knew…

* * *

They entered the Hanged Man, Fenris in the lead. Along the way, Hawke had managed to get a few more of their friends to join them, merely for backup of course, just in case there was trouble. Aveline was right out, however; they hadn't even tried approaching her after she stormed out of Fenris' home. And Sebastian was busy with some sort of Chantry work, though he promised to check in on them that evening and meet Fenris' sister.

They had stopped by Hawke's mansion and asked Anders to join them. Hawke had hoped that the incentive of seeing Hrodwynn would be too tempting—Hawke hadn't told him the real reason they were going; Anders didn't need to know anything about Fenris' sister or Hrodwynn's trip to Minrathous, only that she was back in town. And the thought of seeing Wynnie again was too hard for him to resist, Anders only wavering a moment before agreeing to come with.

They had collected Merril just down the street from the tavern; she had been in the area doing a bit of shopping for herbs. Hawke was betting that Isabela and Varric would, of course, already be at the Hanged Man, provided Isabela wasn't planning some adventure with her newly acquired ship, and Varric wasn't embroiled in some business with the Merchant's Guild.

So reasonably assured they'd have enough hands on deck to handle whatever storm may—or may not—come, they approached the door to the Hanged Man.

Fenris was the first to enter the tavern, and the first to see her. It was almost immediately, his eyes sweeping the common room—nearly empty at this time of the morning—from right to left to her. She sat on the far side of the room, her back to the corner, her face towards the door. When she caught his eye…

Memories came back. Memory on top of memory on top of memory… Fenris' breath caught in his chest, squeezing his heart like a lyrium-infused fist. His vision was clouded, images from his past superimposed upon each other, superimposed upon reality, the mental weight falling against his mind like the walls surrounding the Gallows. In a trance he walked towards her, his body automatically avoiding tables and patrons, while his eyes—his focus—never left her, never swayed from the young elven woman with bright red hair sitting alone at a table…

…sitting alone…

Her gaze had fallen as soon as she had caught his eye, as soon as she had confirmed the strange elf in the door was her brother. For hours—all night and most of the morning—she had sat there, waiting, almost convincing herself that he wasn't here in Kirkwall, that he wouldn't come, that this would be all for nothing and she'd never get her reward. But now he was standing before her, "You came."

Fenris heard her voice, but his thoughts were overwhelmed at that moment with visions of his past, of his childhood, of… "We used to play… in the courtyard… while mother worked… you are Varania… and you called me…"

"Leto, that's your name, isn't it?" she answered, finally looking up at him. Her face was pale though her cheeks were flushed with heat, and her eyes shone with a hardness not unlike steal, "Or that was your name." There was so much venom in her words, so much anger, so much hatred. He had done all this—he remembered now—he had fought so hard and suffered so much for her, her and their mother, and now she hated him for it…?

"I… I don't understand…" Fenris found himself sputtering.

"I do," Hawke sighed, one hand hanging idly at his hip but within easy reach of his staff/mace. Fenris at long last was able to tear his gaze away from his sister to see where Hawke was looking at the top of the stairs. "Your premonition was correct; we've been tricked."

* * *

It's a trick, Hrodwynn told herself, it's just a trick. Don't believe him. Don't trust him. You know it's a trick, it's a lie, it's a trap.

The bluish-white light was now strong enough to cast shadows, slipping through the crack beneath the door. Still there were no footsteps, no other indication of his arrival, but she knew it was him, knew that light could only be him.

She found a corner and braced herself, a hand to either side, and struggled to her feet. It was awkward, due in part to the near starvation she had been put through, and in part to the injuries she collected over the past several weeks. She had bruised ribs, a twisted ankle, what she suspected was a dislocated shoulder, and some of the bones of her right hand were no doubt broken. She had bandaged herself as best she could, and endured the pain of what she could not fix, but she would stand. She would stand and face him.

She would never go down without a fight.

* * *

The fight was nearly over. Everyone lay dead around him. Well, Hawke and the others—Varric, Anders, Isabela, and Merril were all alive and standing. But every Tevinter who had come with Danarius, every demon he had spawned to fight for him, were all dead or destroyed, bled out and returned to ash. Only Danarius himself remained, trapped before him, pinned against a wall, Fenris' fist sunk wrist-deep into his chest—he had been partly amazed to find the man had a heart for his fist to wrap around.

"I made you, boy!" Danarius sputtered, still fighting for his life, unable to see much less accept his inevitable doom. "I made you powerful! I made you invincible!"

"You made me your tool, your weapon," Fenris countered, "Like a staff or a dagger. That's all I am to you… all I ever was… an item to wield as you saw fit, or discard if it grew inconvenient. Like you did in Seheron."

"Seheron?" Danarius choked, finding it harder and harder to breath. Yet he didn't think he would die, his arrogance refusing to let himself believe that his own slave, his own little pet wolf, could actually go so far as to kill him. Threaten him, sure; coerce some sort of further concession from him, quite likely. But Fenris could never end his master's life. "Seheron. Is that what this is about? You're upset that I left you behind? I had to, lad. I had to leave you there. The captain wouldn't allow me to take you; the ship was already crowded, and you were only a slave."

"'You were only a slave'," he repeated in a rudely mimicking manner. "Do you hear yourself? Can you? I was only a slave. Not a person, but an object. A possession. Like a coat or an extra pair of shoes." He leaned in closer, his dead eyes boring into Danarius' widened eyes.

"All my life," Fenris breathed, "All my life I'd been a slave. I had no will of my own. No desire. No sense of self. All I had, all I was, all I wanted, was to fulfill your slightest whim. Anything you asked of me—anything!—I gave you. Freely. Wholly. And I never understood, never conceived of this concept of personal identity.

"That is, until Seheron happened," he continued, his voice dropping down into its darkest, gravely depths. "But it wasn't because you abandoned me there. It was because of the Fog Warriors. Do you remember them? How you found me in their village, with them? How you ordered me to kill them all? And I…" Fenris' voice nearly choked, but he forced himself onward, "I obeyed. Those people, those kind people who'd taken me in… tended my wounds… cured me and sheltered me and fed me… It never occurred to me that what you wanted was wrong. Evil. Or that I could deny you. That I should deny you. That there truly was nothing making me obey you but my self, or rather my lack of self. Not until," he shuddered and nearly pulled away, his deepest and most secret pain staining his features, "Not until I stood there with their blood on my hands—MY HANDS!—looking up at you in your spotless robes. Their blood should have drenched you, their deaths should have lain on your head, the sin should have been yours!

"That's what happened in Seheron," he finished. "That's what gave me the strength, the impetus, to finally break free of your hold over me, to claim my freedom and leave slavery behind. The price they paid… the price those innocents paid… their blood… bought my life…"

Fenris' hand tightened, minimally, but it was enough to make Danarius choke again, his hands grasping at Fenris' gauntlet, heedless of the razor-sharp edges slicing into his fingers.

"I will admit, I once wanted this chance. I even dreamt about it, this conversation, how I would explain matters to you, and you would understand and see how wrong you were. At least, I did, once, years ago. But I've since learned," his fist tightened again, and the mage began to cough up blood, "It would make no difference. I could explain, as I did just now, about it all, but I know you would never understand—it would not change you. I know you will never see the evil you've done."

"…then…why…?"

Fenris leaned in even closer, their noses almost touching, Danarius' breath stinking up his lungs. "For my own sake, you selfish bastard. This was something I needed to confess, to get off my soul, to receive absolution for. It has nothing to do with you, not any longer. Yes, I fought at your behest. I killed for you. I killed a whole village for you. But I am free of that guilt now, just as I am free of your enslavement."

He pulled away, slightly, and savored every last moment. He watched Danarius' eyes widen even further. He watched Danarius' hands fall away from his gauntlet. He watched Danarius' mouth grow slack and the blood drool out. He watched, and continued to watch, long after the deed was done.

It was the sound of someone retching that drew him out of the moment. A retch and a sob, with a very feminine and familiar voice moaning afterwards. Immediately he spun around, dropping Danarius' dead body without another thought, to pin Varania with his glare. "You!"

She squeaked from her corner of the tavern, her hatred and anger from earlier vanishing before her fear and loathing… still directed at him. What had happened, he wondered. What had gone so wrong, to make one sibling hate another with such furor?

* * *

What had happened, Hrodwynn wondered while pressed into her corner, what had gone so horribly wrong?

She had reached Minrathous without a hitch and penned the note to Fenris, letting him know she had arrived safe and would soon be on her way to see his sister. She had left the note with the ship's captain before she disembarked the next morning; he was returning to Kirkwall and had promised to see the letter was delivered. Then she set her steps for the tavern where she was to meet Varania.

Varric had wanted her to check in with his contacts first thing. And she should have done so—she could see that now—but at the time her only thought was to meet Varania, meet the sister of the man she loved, meet a member of his family. And the tavern wasn't too far from the docks. And when she arrived, she saw that Varania was there, sitting demurely towards the back, waiting for Hrodwynn, with bright red hair—Hrodwynn thought about teasing Fenris when they got back, that he only loved her because she had red hair like his sister…

Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw the bluish-white light of lyrium, pulsing strongly just outside the door, spilling around the cracks and into her cell and filling it with his light. Oh, Maker, her heart began to race, thinking of that first time she had seen that light. After being captured by Danarius… After being taken to his estate… After spending her first of many nights in this cell…

She had seen that light. She had instantly recognized it. And in amazed relief, she had called out…

"It's me, my pet, it's Fenris," the voice, that disgusting voice, cooed from just outside the door.

Hrodwynn wanted to scream, could feel the cry rise with the gorge in her throat, but she swallowed both sound and bile and garnered her meager strength. She was going to need it.

"Come, now, my love," that hated voice was almost laughing at her, "You know who I am. Don't be afraid. It's only me. It's only Fenris." Those last words were filled with such ire and suppressed loathing, it made her blood run cold. "That's what you called me, wasn't it? By HIS name? That's who you thought I was. So say it. Say it again, call me by his name, tell me what little pet names you have for each other, and I promise: I'll leave you alone tonight."

Don't do it, she warned herself, keep your mouth shut, it's a trap, you can't trust him, you can't believe him, don't tell him anything or he'll use it against you like he's-done-before-he's-dangerous-oh-Blessed-Andraste-he's-coming-through-the-door!

* * *

"Don't do it," Varric's rough voice amazingly penetrated the heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Don't do it, Broody. I know you want to; believe me! I know how it feels to be betrayed by your own sibling. But don't kill her. You don't want that hanging over your head."

Fenris' lyrium was glowing so brightly, it was almost hard to look at him. He stood looming over Varania, like a cobra about to strike, all his anger and ire far too close to the surface to be denied. His blood was racing through his veins, making him want to act, making him want to continue killing, and Varania deserved it, she came here with Danarius, she betrayed him, she was bait for the trap to catch him, she was no sister to him…

"Do it!" she cried, her fear lending her strength to sputter at him, her eyes overflowing with bitter tears. "Do it! Kill me! It'll be a mercy. You've ruined everything else in my life…"

"I…" he struggled through his new-found memories, searching for whatever it was he had done that could have hurt her so deeply. "I did this for you. And mother. I won the chance to become Danarius' experiment, because he offered a boon. I competed against the others, I defeated them, so that you and mother could be free."

"Free?" she sneered, "Freedom did nothing good for us. Mother and I were put out on the street, no shelter, no food, no income, no home. And we had no idea how to take care of ourselves. That first year, mother starved to death. I nearly did, too." She looked away from him and added, almost too quietly to hear, "I wish I had."

Fenris stared at her, half in disbelief, half in astonishment, as she continued to speak.

"I finally found someone kind enough to take me in, to teach me a trade. I didn't care that it came with a price; I had a roof over my head and food in my belly! So what if his hands were a little too harsh at night. But then Danarius found me. He wanted me to come…" she hiccoughed, her hand trembling as she covered her mouth. Then she made herself continue, made her hand into a fist and lowered it from her mouth, "He said I could come home. He… he offered to teach me… to mentor me… to take me on as his apprentice…"

“I don’t believe it, your own sister’s a mage,” Anders’ irreverent scoff was politely ignored by the others, and completely missed by the two siblings—fortunately.

Yet Fenris had already come to the same conclusion, his blood running cold at the revelation—how could he have forgotten!? Varania a mage? It wasn’t until she mentioned it, that he remembered she had a talent for magic, and as a slave, she wouldn’t have been allowed to become a magister. But once she was free…

"But you've ruined that, too! You've killed Danarius. Now I have nothing! No family. No home. No future." She closed her eyes, kneeling before him, and shouted, "Just kill me and get it over with!"

This wasn't fair. This wasn't right. Fenris could remember now—he could remember it all. He remembered how Hadriana was starting to take an interest in Varania; even back then, he knew what Hadriana could be like, where her interests lie, and what attention from her would entail. He didn't want that for his sister. He would do anything for her. And he did, fighting nearly to his own death to show Danarius that he was worthy. And with the boon, with his mother and sister free, he had spared them both of Hadriana's attentions.

But Varania didn't see it that way. And she never would. He knew that now. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better if she died here, tonight.

Fenris' lyrium brightened again, and his fist hovered over his sister's heart. Yet he didn't penetrate her chest, he didn't give her a taste of the pain he could inflict—the threat was enough, judging by the quaking of her body. "You have one chance to save your life. Tell me what happened to Hrodwynn. Where is she? What did Danarius do to her?"

Varania's lip was trembling, spittle forming at the corner of her mouth, but she bravely, and foolishly, looked up at him and countered with, "Who?"

There was a half-moment, the merest hesitation, when no one in the tavern dared to breathe, or even to blink. Everyone was watching the tableau play out, enraptured and fearful and shocked. Fenris found himself caught up in that fraction of a second, at a loss, wondering—along with the others—what he was about to do. Then inspiration struck and he had the answer.

The snarl was feral, something otherworldly, something unnatural, but nonetheless coming from within Fenris' chest. His arm lashed out, straight, slamming into the wall behind Varania, but going over her shoulder rather than through it. She flinched and cried out, and it was that small act which showed how completely and eternally any ties between the two former siblings had been severed.

"Get out! Never let me see you again," Fenris commanded, letting her go. He knew how thoroughly she hated him, and that hatred would keep her from helping him find out what happened to Hrodwynn; there was no point in even trying to get anything out of Varania. But he wasn't at a dead end. He had a place to start his search, Minrathous. Danarius' mansion to be more precise. He didn't look up as Varania struggled to her feet, he didn't turn as she started for the door—a little too quickly lest he change his mind. His former sister was forgotten, his thoughts already planning his search for his love.

"I… I overheard…" Varania's whispered voice floated towards him, barely penetrating the bloodlust still throbbing in his ears, "One of Danarius' men said something… just before we set sail… that they had gotten word… the girl was securely tucked away… at Danarius' country estate…"

The words sunk into his brain slowly, but they did sink in. He knew the place, knew the layout of the grounds and the buildings, and most importantly the chambers and cells beneath the main mansion. He turned towards Varania, and the single word he spoke was without lethargy or haste, without anger or love. "Run."

She did.

* * *

"Dammit, Matt…"

"Don't call me that!" the man said, pulling away from Hrodwynn's unmoving form, straightening his grafted spirit hide armor as he stood. "I told you, call me Fenris wherever she can hear." He finished buckling his belt as he added, "After all, that's what she called me. That's who she thought I was, the first time she saw me. So that's who I am… to her, at least."

"Fine, Fenris," the other man, standing in the now open doorway of the cell, humored the first, "But look at her. Master Danarius said we were supposed to keep her alive and whole…"

"No," the false 'Fenris' countered, still feeling the rush of endorphins after his latest session with Hrodwynn, "Master only said he wanted her kept alive. He didn't say we couldn't play with her. Besides," he nudged her in the bruise along her ribs with the toe of his boot, "She's still alive. See? Her tits are moving with her breath. You can even see them quiver with her heartbeat, if you look close enough."

The second man rolled his eyes, but as he was behind the false 'Fenris's back, his insolent act went unnoticed. "Alright, alright, but maybe we should give her a healing potion, even a weak one. Master Danarius does want her alive—at least long enough for the real Fenris to see her and recognize her."

The false 'Fenris' laughed, a hollow and joyless sound, "Now that's something worth living for. Isn't it, love?" he knelt down beside Hrodwynn and stroked her cheek, but she remained unresponsive. "Master Danarius has such plans for you and your knife-ear lover. Oh, I can hardly wait for Master's return, with Fenris chained and in tow. He'll be cowered and submissive again, like a good little slave should be. And Master will allow you two to see each other, one last time. And while Fenris holds you, Master will tell Fenris how he will wipe his memory clean again, then order him to kill you. And Fenris will have to let you go, knowing what's going to happen, and you'll know what's going to happen, and neither one of you will be able to stop it. THAT will be my ultimate revenge."

He didn't notice the lyrium branded into his skin was glowing, the light and the pain such a complete part of him, it seemed as natural as breathing. The other man, however, did see it, and saw his hand pass into the girl's cheek. "She can't hear you, you know. She's passed out cold, hasn't a clue as to what you just said."

The false 'Fenris' snorted, but regained his feet. "Oh, she's heard it before; I've made sure she knows exactly what's coming. And the fear and pain in her eyes, ah, it was delicious." He sauntered unconcerned towards the door, coming up next to the guard and finally seeing the look on his face. "Oh, fine, Laconus, I'll be done for today. Do what you want with her. Give her a healing potion or take a tumble with her yourself; I don't mind sharing. But I warn you, I've already taken the fight out of her—for today, at least."

False 'Fenris' laughed again, the sound eerily echoing down the hallway as he left them.

The guard, Laconus, let go a heavy breath and finished entering the cell. "He's gone, now. You awake?"

Hrodwynn didn't move.

"Just as well, I suppose. Sleep is the only peace you'll find. I am sorry about this," Laconus knelt down beside her and pulled a small vial from his pouch, "But it's your own fault, falling into bed with a knife-ear. An escaped slave, too." He clicked his tongue in disapproval, while he dribbled a small amount of healing potion into her mouth. "There, that should keep you alive, though I imagine you'd rather die now and spare your elven lover the pain, eh? Well, never mind that. I'm here to see to it you live until Master Danarius returns. Course, that doesn't mean I can stop Ma… er, I mean, 'Fenris' from having his fun. Nothing can, not since he convinced Master Danarius to put him through The Procedure." Laconus shuddered, "Man's been different ever since. Insane, I'd say, but then no one listens to me. Not even you, eh?"

Hrodwynn remained unmoving.

"Thought so. I don't mind. Mother always said I talked too much, anyway. Still, I'm here to keep you alive, and you'll be kept alive, until Master Danarius is finished with you, or has Fenris—the real Fenris, that is—finish you off. But if you can hear me," he leaned in close, close enough that his breath fanned her ear and tickled her hair across her temple, "A word to the wise. He likes it when they fight. Girls, that is. He likes to see them struggle and suffer, see the hurt and fear in their eyes. Play dead next time; he might lose interest. Try it or don't, I don't mind," he said a little louder, standing up and moving towards the door, "It'll make my job easier is all, keeping you alive. But either way, you'll live; I promise you that. You'll live right up to the moment that Fenris kills you."

The light from the hallway was cut off when the cell door closed, heavy and solid sounding, final and baneful. Only then did Hrodwynn open her eyes. Only then did she acknowledge that she was awake.

Not that she had been awake for long, only since the healing potion had started to take effect. But it didn't matter that she'd missed half their conversation. She already knew Danarius' plans for her and Fenris—he had told her about those plans in great detail before she'd been taken away in chains to this hellhole. She also already knew of the false 'Fenris' insanity, of his hatred of the real Fenris, and of his sick and perverted lust, and what could spare her the humiliation—but for the life of her, she couldn't stop fighting him. Even knowing it only made matters worse, she couldn't surrender, she couldn't give in, she couldn't break…

She wouldn't break.

Hrodwynn began to take stock of her injuries. Carefully she rolled onto her side, relieved that the pain in her ribs was easing a bit, and pushed herself to a sitting position. She could breathe easier, not too deeply, but it was well enough to keep her lungs strong and healthy. Reaching out she noted that her ankle, too, was feeling less bloated beneath the gentle prodding of her fingers. Even her right shoulder felt like it might be coming back together, and the fresh cut on her lip was already scabbed over and closing. She would live.

Somehow, she clung to hope. Somehow, she had to believe that Danarius would never capture Fenris. Or even if he did, even if Hawke and the others betrayed him, and Danarius brought Fenris back here, submissive and enslaved once more… She clung to the belief that somehow, in some manner, they'd find a way—once they were together again—to defeat Danarius, thwart his plans, and escape.

Next she unwound the strips—fabric that had once been part of her tunic—from her right hand. The potion was still working, slowly, minimally, but she had to test her fingers, she had to test the boundaries of her abilities. If she was going to escape when Fenris arrived, she had to know just how much she could do herself. Unable to see in the pitch blackness of the cell, she used her sense of touch, her left hand supporting her right, as she tested her strength.

She couldn't use her fingers, couldn't bring them close enough to mimic holding a lock pick, before her whole hand spasmed and jerked. Stalled for the time being—she would not be defeated!—she rewrapped the worn strips around the mending bones. Anders could fix her hand; she was sure of it. Fenris would come, they would escape to Kirkwall, and Anders would heal her, and all would be right in the world again.

At least in the darkness, she couldn't see the tears falling from her cheeks and soaking her makeshift bandages.

* * *

Fenris couldn't see the other people in the room, his mind too preoccupied with his brooding. Varania was gone, long gone, and far from his mind. Hrodwynn, however, the woman he loved—the woman he couldn't breathe without—though not far from his mind was far from him physically, far from him and in mortal danger. And he'd have to place himself in the same mortal danger to rescue her.

His feet were moving before he finished registering the thought.

"And just where do you think you are going?"

He blinked, wondering how Hawke had suddenly appeared before him. Magic, no doubt, but he couldn't be bothered just then to sneer at the mage and his practice. His whole mind, his whole being, was consumed with one thought, one need, one motive. "I…"

"You what?" Hawke wouldn't even let him get started. "You were going to go to Minrathous, weren't you? To rescue Hrodwynn? And just how were you going to get there, swim?"

"I…"

"And all by yourself, too, it bet. Ha!" he scoffed, "And people call me self-centered."

"I…" Fenris repeated.

"See what I mean? That's all you can say, I, I, I. Well, let me tell you something, Fenris: you are not the only one who cares about her."

"I…"

"He's right," Varric stepped forward, his crossbow still in his hands. "I care for Button, too, you know. So we're coming with you and Hawke, isn't that right, Bianca?" he cooed to the unique contraption, his thick fingers stroking the stock.

"Oh, a trip to Tevinter? This should be exciting. I do so love to travel."

"That's the spirit, Daisy," Varric hummed in approval.

It was quiet for a span of three heartbeats, Fenris finally overwhelmed into silence by the show of loyalty from his friends. All the while Hawke remained standing before him, smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet as if waiting for something more.

"Oh, bullocks!" Isabela sighed, "Why don't you just come right out and ask it? Yes, fine, Hawke, we'll use my ship to get to and from Tevinter. I suppose a ship's got to have her maiden voyage at some point."

"Maiden voyage? Does that mean, your ship's a virgin, until you've sailed her, I mean?"

Isabela considered Merril's question as they fell into step, heading towards the door. "I never really gave that expression much thought before. Technically, the ship has sailed already, loads of times, with Castillon. But this will be the first time I've sailed her, so she is a 'maiden' again—at least as far as I'm concerned…"

Everyone began following the two women, everyone but Hawke and Anders. The two men didn't budge, Hawke staring at Anders, Anders refusing to meet his gaze. "Anders, love," he breathed when he was unable to wait any longer, "Aren't you coming?"

Finally he looked up, and Hawke wished he hadn't, Justice's glow pulsing faintly in his eyes. "No."

"Anders…"

"No!" he repeated, a bit more firmly. "She was supposed to be here… no, wait," he stalked forwards, bypassing Hawke and pinning Fenris with his rage, "She should never have left in the first place. It's all YOUR fault that she's gone… that she's not here… that she's in danger… you hypocrite!"

"Anders," Hawke repeated, a little stronger. They had just finished one fight; he didn't think they should start another quite so soon. Timidly his fingers brushed Anders' elbow, but the other mage didn't notice. "Please, love, we'll need you on this trip. Wynnie will, too, probably, when we find her…"

"NO!" Anders repeated, almost panting with the effort of keeping Justice in check. His fists balled, his eyes squeezed shut, for several heartbeats while he struggled for control. "She was supposed to be here," he started again, when he felt sure enough of himself. "I thought… I hoped… that she had come to her senses… that she had come home at last… But that's not the case, is it? I have been fooling myself." He glared down his nose at Fenris, and Justice pulsed again. "She doesn't care about me, not any more; she loves you. And because of you, she's in danger. So you can go rescue her if you like—all of you! I don't care! I've washed my hands of her—weeks ago!"

"Anders, you can't mean that…" Hawke started, but he never go the chance to finish. The other mage was already turned away, heading towards the door, his face a storm cloud, and Justice' fathomless rage flickering around him like a cloak. Then he was gone.

"No, Hawke," Fenris stopped him from following with a word, "Let him go. He is right: Hrodwynn loves me. And it is my fault she's in danger. And…" he stopped suddenly. He was about to affirm that Anders had washed his hands of Hrodwynn, but now might not be the time to bring that up, considering the hurt that showed only in Hawke's eyes. "And I must do this. I must go. But none of you have to. Hawke, if you need to stay here, speak with Anders, make sure things are alright between the two of you…"

"No, Fenris," the finality on Hawke's voice was deep, "Anders is a grown man; he should act like one. And I'm not going to allow one of his tantrums to interfere with doing what's right." He turned his back on the door and met Fenris' gaze. "You need my help. Hrodwynn needs my help. Let's not keep her waiting any longer, shall we?"

There were no words. There simply were no words to express the deepness of his gratitude. So he pushed it aside—why bother fussing over it if he couldn't do anything about it—and gestured towards the door. "Lead on."

"I always do," Hawke agreed glibly, masterfully hiding his pain.

* * *

"You must like this, if you won't even say one little word to make it stop."

Hrodwynn tried to twist away again, but his hands buried themselves into the muscles of her shoulders, pinning her in place. She choked off the cry of pain, her own hands clawing at his arms, her nails trying to break skin and cause him pain. He laughed, allowing her a small scratch before the lyrium started to glow and her hands passed harmlessly through his body.

"You're the one doing this, you bastard, not me," she countered, panting around the ache of freshly re-broken ribs. She tensed her abdomen, willing herself to be strong, and brought her leg up to swipe at his head. She wasn't trying to hurt him, but trying instead to distract and break his concentration, and it worked. His hands pulled out of her shoulders, and she gasped in relief at the reprieve. But before she could shift away, before she could gain any distance from him, his hands groped for her leg still suspended in the air. His smile was cruel, almost gloating, as he took hold of her leg, one hand above her knee, the other below it.

"Are you sure? It could be argued, you just spread your legs for me."

"Maker take you!" she snarled, putting every last ounce of her strength into one desperate punch to his groin. Unfortunately, things did not go as she wished. He was still holding her leg, and as he shifted back to avoid her blow, his hands penetrated her skin and gripped the bones of her leg and twisted. To add insult to injury—or injury to injury rather—her shoulder had dislocated again when his hand was inside there, and she hadn't been able to manage much more than a feeble flop before the pain overwhelmed her.

Pain, her newfound companion. It rocked her body in unseen waves of fire and ice.

It poured into her head and blocked her ears with throbbing pressure.

It made her body start to shut down, turn itself off, close off the outside world in an attempt to escape the overpowering pain.

She was trapped. Trapped inside herself. Surrounded by a wall of pain. Macabrely protecting her from the enemy circling just beyond her defenses.

Then she knew no more.


	29. Blindsided

This time was different.

This time, there were booted footfalls reverberating through the stone floor.

This time, there were voices outside her cell, echoing softly down the hallway, some sort of whispered discussion or mumbled banter.

This time, the bluish-white light pulsed and flickered, flowing and ebbing, throbbing stronger each time like a heartbeat becoming infused with adrenaline.

And this time, she did not wake up beforehand.

* * *

"Do you think Isabela's crew can handle the guards?"

"If not, they shouldn't be allowed to call themselves pirates," Varric softly answered Hawke's question. He was all but strolling beside Hawke, shoulder to hip, the two men taking their time as the elf moved ahead of them. Fenris' lyrium never dimmed, never wavered, as he passed the top part of his body through each and every cell door, searching for Hrodwynn. It was a slow process, a painstakingly thorough process, and the time it took chaffed at the elf's nerves, but he couldn't afford to miss a single cell. Varric of course tried to ease the tension with a bit of humor—just a small bit, because he too was anxious for Hrodwynn's welfare.

"However did she convince her crew to attack this estate, anyway?"

"Who knows," Varric shrugged, trying not to see the disappointment and fear and worry gnawing on Fenris' features as he pulled away from yet another wrong cell. "Probably something about hidden treasure on the grounds, or a vault overflowing with gold and gemstones. And how, now that the master is dead, most of his retainers would probably not put up much of a fight, preferring to find new employment rather than giving their lives for someone who's already dead themselves and no longer able to pay their salary. So the imagined treasure would be easy pickings for the crew."

"There is a treasure," Fenris' voice floated back to them, as dim as the sparse torchlight, having just pulled away from another door, "And it really is inside a vault. I told her where to find it, and how to break into it."

"Of course there is a secret stash," Varric sighed, his voice tinted just a little bit with envy. "So Isabela gets to line her pockets after all. Somehow, that doesn't seem fair."

"Oh, I don't know, Varric," Hawke answered, his eyes too watching the elf closely, anticipating that first reaction that would mean that the search was over, "Isabela gets a little richer, sure, but we will have gotten safe passage to and from Tevinter—and Wynnie, in the bargain. I think we come out ahead."

Varric groused, softly, and added, "Just so long as she and her men keep the guards busy enough that they don't notice us."

"They're on the other side of the Keep," Fenris interrupted again, "And three stories above us. There's no reason for any of them to come down here, not when they're trying to get away from attacking pirates." Despite the assurances in his words, his voice was tight, his fists tighter, and his movements the most tightly controlled as he methodically turned to check the next cell. First the one on the left, then the one on the right, then move forwards to the next pair. Left. Right. Next. Left. Right…

"She's here," his voice breathed, his hands automatically bracing against the frame of the doorway to steady himself. He completely forgot that his head and shoulders were inside the cell, inside and staring at… Could it be… It had to be… It must be…

It was the body of a young woman, though looking less like a person and more like a broken doll, a doll that had been tossed aside by a child amidst the throes of a temper tantrum and now lay forgotten where it fell on the hewn stone floor. But a doll with the form of a woman, and creamy pale skin, and dark red hair.

He didn't even consider pulling back outside the cell long enough to tell Hawke and Varric that he had found her. Instead his fingers went numb and loosened their grip, his hands slipping from the frame to fall at his sides, his body leaning forwards just that little bit more so he had to take a step and phase through the door.

"Ah, Elf?" Varric called out to him as he and Hawke hustled up to the door. They had immediately noted Fenris' odd behavior, and had hesitated themselves when he had, hardly daring to breathe much less hope. They remained standing still in mute optimism, right up to the point where they saw him tip himself into the cell. Only then did they rush forward as one, hastening to reach the cell before he passed through, but were too late to catch him. Varric gave the door a quick pound of frustration with his fist before calling out, "Hey, Fenris! Hawke and I can't do that trick you do, ya know. You wanna open the door first? Pick the lock from inside? Oh, never mind; I'll do it." Varric knelt down before the door handle and took out his picks, muttering to himself the whole time.

Fenris heard nothing of this, the thickness of the cell door making most of the words indistinguishable anyway. He stood as still as a statue, his whole body shimmering with the bluish-white glow of lyrium, but in the soft light he could only make out a few forms and shadows, nothing distinctive that would confirm his suspicions. He pulsed stronger, suffusing the chamber with light and allowing him to see clearly. The sight that met his eyes left him feeling physically staggered, as if someone had dealt him a blow beneath the belt.

There was a woman in here. From the vulnerable position her body had been left in, he immediately knew what type of abuse she had been suffering. Added to that, her right arm was bent awkwardly beneath her, and he could tell by the odd bump beneath her skin that her humerus was out of her shoulder socket. Her left leg was bruised above and below the knee, and twisted in a way that showed it was obviously broken. Her scalp was irritated and oozing in places where her hair had been pulled out in small chunks, half-dried blood blending into the dark red strands and snarling them with filth. Beyond these more serious and apparent injuries, there were a seemingly countless amount of bruises, abrasions, cuts, welts, swellings…

He swallowed, his eyes searching for any hint, any clue, that this was Hrodwynn, both afraid and desperate to confirm her identity. He stared at her side, trying to see past the gore and filth, to the skin beneath, to the creamy pale skin, to the tiny little scar in the valley between two ribs, a scar Jaxon had given her when he stabbed her in Darktown three years ago, forcing Fenris to chose between either chasing him or saving her life.

…oh, dear Maker, this was Hrodwynn…

He didn't know if he felt relief or guilt, happiness or rage. He'd found her, but—venhedis—what she must have gone through this past month or more. And she was just lying there, unaware of his presence, her body exposed and battered, but at least it was a body still moving with breath.

His own body didn't dare to breathe, his chest held tightly in a vice, his limbs refusing to respond to his commands. He needed to go to her, he needed to confirm it was her, he needed to turn her face towards him and see her familiar features…

…but all he could do was stand there and call her name. "Hrodwynn?"

She heard him; the sudden voice inside her cell, so close to her and without warning, made her start awake. But awareness brought pain, throbbing and aching and sharp and deep and unending. She panted a soft moan for the agony, her strength nearly used up in the wrinkling of her brows, as she struggled to find the energy to fight him off again. No, no, no, she thought to herself, it's too soon, he was just here, the other one hasn't come yet with a healing potion, if he's here again he'll kill me for sure and I can't… I can't… I won't… I must…

"Hrodwynn," she heard him say again, even closer this time, and—she would not stop fighting him!—she strove to lift a hand to shove him away. Something caught her hand, or rather HE caught her hand. The next moment, his arm was under her shoulders, lifting her off the cold hard ground. She managed to open the one eye that wasn't swollen shut to stare at the face before her.

A blurry shape was all she could see, swarthy colored skin marred and disfigured with bluish-white swirls of lyrium shining brightly. She whimpered against the hurt and managed a harder shove against HIM.

"Hrodwynn, stop, it's alright now, it's me, Fenris, don't be afraid, look at me, my love, look at me, it's me, Fenris, see?" He made his markings glow even stronger.

"Nooooo…" her voice came out in a part-groan, part-wail, part-battlecry, and part-prayer. It wasn't Fenris. It couldn't be him… "…it's never him… it's always you… every time… the false one…"

"False… what?" Fenris asked, confused.

"I won't…" her voice tried to fail her, but exhausted or not, beaten half to death or not, it wasn't in her nature to stop fighting. Not able to manage much more than a whisper, she pressed on, "I'll never… never… never betray…"

"Hrodwynn," Fenris called yet again, beginning to wonder if she might be suffering some sort of hallucination or fever. Her words were so confusing, they left him without any understanding of what she might be talking about. Betrayal? The false one? The one who had been hurting her, perhaps? But she couldn't mean him, could she? Her head lay in the crook of his arm, her one good eye almost rolling back as she nearly fainted. He cupped her cheek, as tenderly and as lovingly as he could while wearing his gauntlets, and all but begged her, "Hrodwynn. Look at me. Look at my face. Look at the lyrium. You know it's me. It's Fenris. No one else has these markings."

"You do," she countered, finding the will to sneer at him through her swollen lips, leaving him even more confused.

"Of… of course I do. I'm Fenris. I am your love."

Her shoulder convulsed in what might have been a sarcastic sort of snort or a laugh. Her head wobbled, knocking against the edges of his armor, as she shook it. "You fooled me once. Never again. Never… never… I'll never… betray… him again…"

He was at a loss, stumped, bewildered, unable to comprehend what was wrong, and because of that he could see no way to help her—other than convincing her somehow that he was who he said he was. That he was Fenris. That he was her love. Her lover. Sudden inspiration struck and he knew what he had to do. "A-am-amatus," he stuttered, willing her to understand, willing her to see him, willing her to know him.

The single word did the trick. She stopped trying to shake her head. She stopped trying to shove at him. She stopped fighting and paused and stared up at him through one bloodshot emerald eye sparkling with the reflected light of his lyrium.

"I call you amatus," he elaborated, his blacker than midnight brows curling with emotion, feeling slightly encouraged now that he had gotten her to focus on him. "It means, you are loved by me. And you call me Fen. You thought it was the nickname for Fenris," his lips smiled slightly as he continued, his fingers lightly brushing the hair away from her face, pulling it free of the half-dried blood staining her temple, "But Fenris is the nickname. Fenris means little wolf; and Fen, the wolf. But that's what you call me. Fen. You, and only you. No one else calls me that. No one else knows of that. You are my Amatus, and I am your Fen."

Her bruised lips trembled, her one good eye overflowed with tears, and her hand weakly reached up to him. "Is… is it… is it… really you… this time… please… let it be…" She stopped herself, almost biting her lip with fear, before allowing herself to whisper that one private name, "Fen…?"

He caught her hand again, gently, and pressed the palm against his lips, heedless of the gore etched into the creases of her skin. "It is," he vowed, his breath warming her chilled fingers.

Contradictorily, this only seemed to upset her more. She started to weep, tears slipping out of the bruised eye as well as the open one. "I'm sorry," she whispered through the blubbering, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. But when I saw him, I thought he was you, and I called him…"

"Shh…" he stroked one finger over her mouth to silence her cries, wishing he wasn't wearing his cold and hardened armor, wishing he could hold her against his chest, feel her so close to him that the two became one. His hand moved to her cheek, the sharpened talons carefully avoiding scratching her, and wiped the tears away in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "Shh, amatus, it's alright now. You're safe. I'm here. It's over."

"Is it?" she half-laughed, half-hiccoughed, her feverish and tormented mind only managing to move from one nightmare to another. "You know what will happen next? He told you, didn't he?" She gazed at his face for what she supposed might very well be the last time. Oh, Maker, but this hurt, knowing their fate—that Danarius would allow them this reunion, before wiping Fenris' memory and then making him kill her. At least neither of them would have to live with the pain and the guilt: she would be dead, and Fenris would never remember.

"Who told me what?" he asked, but seeing the pained expression on her features, he decided they could pursue that topic of conversation at another time—when they had the time. "No, never mind that. Listen to me, Hrodwynn, just listen. Hawke and the others came here with me. To rescue you. Danarius is dead…"

"He's… dead…?" she interrupted, the pain vanishing before the brunt of her confusion, as if she could only hold on to one emotion, one concept, at a time.

"Yes, he's dead, and we came here to rescue you. Isabela and her crew are keeping the guards distracted…"

"Isabela's crew…?"

"…while Hawke, Varric and I search for you. But we've found you. I've found you. And I'm taking you home. Back to Kirkwall. Do you understand?"

She had finally stopped interrupting him, and instead faced him with a slack mouth and a blank stare; now it was her turn to be baffled.

"That's a bit too much to take in all at once, there, Broody," Varric hummed from the opening door. "Why don't you keep it simple for now? Button, we're hear to rescue you. And, whoa, was NOT expecting that."

"Expecting what?" Hawke asked, having stayed out in the hallway, ostensibly to keep watch.

"Er, nothing, just, ah," Varric had very quickly turned his back in what he thought was a very gentlemanly manner. It wasn't the intimate reunion he had just walked in on that had caught him off guard, or the horrific state of her injuries, but the state of her, erm… "Mind if we borrow your cloak?"

"My cloak?" Hawke had taken a few steps down the corridor, but he turned around and came back, his curiosity guiding his steps. "Why would you need my cloak… oh!" He'd gotten just far enough to see into the cell, to see a pair of pale legs covered only in filth and blood. He didn't look any further, didn't need to, the expression on Varric's face confirming his suspicious. Then the implications of Varric's words sank in. "No," he said in almost a moan, taking half a step back, his hands raised up as if to ward off a blow. "No, no, no. This is my favorite cloak. It's practically new. I love this cloak. My cloak."

Varric crossed his arms, standing in the doorway of the cell, facing Hawke.

"My brand new cloak."

Varric didn't say a word, didn't change his expression.

"My very-expensive-brand-new-favorite-cloak."

Varric moved, but only to hold out one of his hands expectantly.

Hawke sighed, hating it, but knowing he had never stood a chance. He unfastened the solid gold clasps at the neck, and gave the lambswool lining one final stroke, before swinging it off his shoulders. "Here. I hope she appreciates this, the sacrifice I'm making, for her." He shoved the cloak into Varric's outstretched hand before he changed his mind, and then he moved off down the hallway again, muttering to himself and hugging his arms as if he suddenly felt a chill, "…my birthday gift… to me…"

Varric gave a little smile and shook his head, knowing Hawke really didn't mind giving up his cloak; it was almost a habit the way those two irritated each other. He cleared his throat and shifted backwards a couple of steps, not wanting to turn around again, trying to preserve as much modesty as he could for Hrodwynn—Maker only knows what she'd suffered, what she'd had to endure, these past several weeks. "Here."

"Thank you," Fenris reached behind him to take the cloak. He didn't want to take his eyes off of Hrodwynn. He couldn't stop staring at all the hurts on her body, all the signs of abuse, all the pain and humiliation etched seemingly permanently into her features. Because he knew, he had been the cause of this. It had been his amnesia, his mental block, his inability to be intimate with her, and the search for a way to break through his troubles—fasta vass, it had been his sister and his former master, for Andraste's sake!—that had resulted in her being imprisoned her here for over a month.

He may as well have had done this to her himself. And she undoubtedly felt the same way, and blamed him, judging by her earlier words.

Finally, though, when the cloak was in his hand, he had to come out of his brooding and act. He spread the garment over her like a blanket, the lambswool side inwards to lie softly against her vandalized skin. She sighed, feeling the warmth leftover from Hawke's body still embedded in the fabric, feeling that warmth start to warm her. Though Fenris supported her in his arm in a reclining position, her buttocks and legs still lay on the cold stone floor. She gave a little shiver for the dichotomy, warmth above and cold beneath, but already seemed a little better for the small comfort.

"Varric," Fenris called softly, still unwilling to look away, "Did you remember to bring those healing potions?"

"I'm going to pretend like I didn't hear that," the dwarf answered. He turned around, now that it was safe, and walked over to Hrodwynn's other side. He knelt down next to her and examined her carefully, palpating her limbs through the cloak, all the while moving slowly so as not to startle her. "Leg's broken?"

It wasn't so much a question as a statement in need of confirmation, which Fenris gave in a single nod. "And her shoulder's dislocated."

"My hand…" she added, trying to pull it out from beneath the cloak to show them, but her arm still wasn't working right.

"Sh, my love, don't try to move. Let us do it for you." Reluctantly, Fenris set her back on the ground, he had to before he could fix her shoulder, but he tucked the edges of the cloak beneath her, allowing her some small comfort. Then he carefully took hold of her upper arm and slipped it out from beneath the garment.

Varric gave a soft hiss, but hoped he caught himself in time before Hrodwynn could hear him. "You, ah, you got this?"

"I know what I'm doing," he said with far more confidence than he felt. He had absently noted her hand, wrapped up tight in all that was left of her tunic, but his focus was on her shoulder first. With one hand holding her arm from without, and with his other hand phasing and holding her shoulder from within, he gently eased the bone back into place. He pretended he didn't see her turn her face away with a grimace.

"Nice trick," the dwarf grudgingly allowed. "Think you can do it again on her leg?"

Fenris didn't bother with a reply—not a verbal one, anyway. He leaned over her and quickly went to work, wanting to get this done, wanting to spare her all the discomfort he could, wanting her whole and restored. To him.

Hrodwynn tried not to look, she tried not to move, but all she could think of was how this was not right, this was in reverse order, the bones were setting not breaking—yet the lyrium was still the same. She had to trust Fenris, she had to trust that it was really Fenris this time, but dammit it was hard! The glow of lyrium… His hands phasing into her body… She brought her hand up to her face, found the knot in the bandages, and bit it in an effort to keep herself from screaming.

"Here, let me see that," Fenris commanded softly, finishing with her leg and moving back to her hand. She didn't want to—was he really here? Her love? Her Fen? It was so hard to believe—but she had no reason to keep it from him. Nor the strength to deny him. Shaking, she spit out the knot and let him lift her hand away from her face.

"He, ah, he broke it, that first time," she sniffed, looking at her hand as he carefully unwrapped her makeshift dressing. "He found my lock picks. Figured I knew how to use them. Figured I was right handed. So he took the picks, tore up my clothing, too, looking for anything else I might have secreted away. And then he… he broke my fingers."

Neither Varric nor Fenris pressed her for any details. She had already said more than enough for both of them, Fenris again feeling the guilt bury him—he had sent her here, after all—and Varric figuring it had been Danarius who had stripped her and broken her hand—which was practically a death sentence for a thief, losing the ability to pick locks.

The bastard.

"This… this is beyond me… I can't…" Fenris whispered to Varric, lifting up his dull green eyes, completely at a loss. The bones in her hand had indeed been broken, some of them crushed, and so long ago and after so many healing potions, that they had already set themselves. In the wrong shape. The palm of her hand was curved, tucking her two smallest fingers inwards, and leaving her thumb to stick outward in a slightly disjointed angle.

"Anders…?"

Both men closed their eyes in response to all the faithful hope she placed in that single name.

"Yeah," Varric was the first to find his voice, dropping his face to start fumbling at his pouch, "Yeah, sure, Anders will fix that, soon as we're back in Kirkwall. Here, Button, drink this. Slowly. It's a healing potion. That's it. Take your time. No need to rush. You're safe now."

It wasn't quite a lie, more like an exaggerated truth, which was something Varric was very good at telling. They were still in the middle of a dungeon beneath the Keep of a dead Tevinter Magister whose men were either fighting pirates or fleeing them… Yup, they neither had time, nor were safe. But Hrodwynn believed him and felt calmer for it, and that was what was important. She took the potion and, sip after sip, swallow after swallow, grew stronger.

When the vial was empty, he discarded it behind him and went for another. Focused on his pouch, he had taken his eyes off of her, so he was startled when her other hand slipped out from beneath the cloak and reached for him.

"Varric?"

He stared at the fingers, the nails broken and chipped, clutching at the front of his tunic. He placed one of his calloused hands over hers as he looked back at her face and saw the effects of the potion beginning to work, the bruise around her eye fading and it beginning to open. She was looking at him now with two eyes, two very tearful eyes looking like a pair of emeralds through a shallow stream. The swelling and cut on her lips began closing even as she spoke, "Is this a dream, or is this really happening, this time?"

This time, he repeated to himself, wondering how many times the poor girl had lain here, in this cell, dreaming of escape, dreaming of being rescued, perhaps dreaming something very similar to what was happening right now. His eyes twinkled, his hand giving hers a reassuring squeeze before moving their hands from his tunic to rest over his heart. "This is real. I'm real. I mean, come on, do you think your imagination—on its best day—could ever hope to match the reality of my chest hair?"

She didn't laugh, she didn't even smile, but the corner of her mouth did give a twitch. It wasn't much, but it was encouraging. He let go of her hand and went back to searching in his pouch. He had seen the signs, too—he had seen how she flinched away from Fenris when he used his lyrium to set her bones. He had also felt the trembling in her hand as he had held it to his chest. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what had been done to her.

But he also knew, this was a woman who had fought for everything she had in life: she had fought to survive living on her own, fought to learn her skills and prove her unmatched reputation, even fought against an unseen and untouchable enemy to win the chance to be with the man she loved. And judging by the state she was in, he knew that she again had fought back, that she had never given up, that there remained some spark within her. He had to encourage that spark to flicker, to catch fire, to flare back into life. "You're doing just fine, Button. One more healing potion I think should do the trick, at least until we're back onboard Isabela's ship."

"Agreed," Fenris hummed. He was feeling nervous, antsy, twitchy, staying in one place for so long. He had been far too familiar with these cells while a slave of Danarius—both after and before The Procedure—and wanted to get moving and get her to safety as soon as possible. Memories were flooding back, more and more of them the longer he spent in this place. It was getting hard to breathe, hard to focus, and he had to keep staring at Hrodwynn, keep reminding himself of his guilt, to keep the demons of his freshly rediscovered past at bay.

"That should do it," Varric emptied the last of the potion into Hrodwynn's mouth. "I'll step outside and see how Hawke's doing, make sure the coast is clear, that sort of thing. Think you can finish in here on your own?"

Fenris nodded, once, thankful that Varric somehow understood the difference between when he was needed, as in tending to her hurts, and when he was no longer needed, as in this awkwardly tender moment. He waited until he heard the dwarf shuffling his feet out in the hallway before he settled his gaze back on Hrodwynn's face. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes moving constantly around the room, flitting from place to place like a bird, her breath panting softly through her parted lips. He took her hand, gently through the bandages, and asked, "Do you think you can sit up?"

He saw her brow wrinkle a bit, her tongue slip out to taste the blood clinging to the now whole skin beneath, before she nodded, "I… I think so."

He slipped his other arm beneath her shoulders and lifted. He didn't let go of her, didn't lose contact with her, as he helped her sit up. She was tense, pulling in on herself, almost pulling away from his touch, but not completely. She knew she needed his help, his assistance, his strength, however much it pained her. Once she was sitting, he let go of her hand, letting fall with a soft plop onto her lap.

"We need to readjust this cloak. Doesn't seem like there's any sleeves for your arms. Would you mind, being wrapped up inside it, like a blanket?"

Yes, she very much would mind it, but the only other option was to go naked. So she shored up her courage, pushed down her panic, and shook her head. This really was her Fen, she chanted to herself, with Varric and Hawke and the others. This really was a rescue. The nightmare really was over.

"Hold on a moment," his husky voice thrummed while he adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, "Let me tuck this side in, then I'll carry you."

She sniffed, her breath coming and going in soft little gasps, as she asked, "F-F-Fe-Fenris, um, do you think, maybe, you could stop glowing?"

"Why?" he asked, making sure the open edge of the cloak would lie between their bodies after he lifted her up.

"Just… please… stop? For me? Please? Don't ask, just…stop!"

He did stop, but only the movements of his hands, his glow remaining. Instead he ducked his head, trying to see her face, but she wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even open her eyes, her face screwed up in an effort to block out any light coming from his lyrium brands. Well, he was finished making sure she was covered, and with the cell door open, what little light there was in the hallway would probably be enough to guide them out of the cell. He allowed the markings to grow dim, his arms wrapping around her as if to hold her in place, as if to keep her from disappearing back into the shadows now threatening to swallow them both.

She flinched again.

He tried to ignore it, tried to deny the fact that it had happened, thinking she was undoubtedly trying to do the same. Fasta vass, but he could feel the shaking of her whole body as she fought to remain calm. He shouldn't have to do this, he shouldn't have to hesitate before touching his love, his amatus. He shouldn't have to ask permission before sweeping her into his arms and off of her feet.

She seemed to feel the same way, to understand his angst as well as her own. Bravely, without any words of her own, without waiting for him to find his words, she leaned over towards him and bent her good leg, ready to be carried. And he did pick her up, scooping her off the ground and rising to his feet in a very fluid motion that was unmistakably Fenris.

"Amatus…"

"Fen," she answered quickly, cutting off his questions. She tucked her head against his shoulder, her own hurt shoulder nestled securely between them, her hurt leg supported comfortably from his arm. "Please, Fen, no questions, not yet, let's just go. Let's leave here. Before he comes back."

"He won't be coming back," Fenris vowed, stepping out into the dim light of the hallway. "Whoever did this to you is either fighting off Isabela's pirates, or running from them. Danarius is dead; there's no reason for any of his guards to remain."

"That won't stop him," she whispered.

"Ah, there they are," Hawke beamed at her, only somewhat forced. He briefly eyed the filth and gore already staining his cloak, before finally giving up that he'd ever get it back. "I've already scouted down this way a bit, seems like it goes on forever. I was thinking we should go back the way we came…"

"We go forwards," Fenris countered. "Two lefts, then a right, then we're along the outer wall of the building."

"Wonderful," Hawke droned, "Then all we have to do is find a door leading outside."

"Or make one," Fenris agreed.

That stopped him short, well imaging the hole Fenris could make even in a solid stone wall, should he put his mind to it. "Ah, I see your point. Still, we should wait for Varric, don't you think?"

"Where is he," Fenris asked, turning in place. He wanted to keep moving, to get them—get Hrodwynn—out of there, and this unexpected delay was making him nervous, sending alarm bells ringing through the back of his head.

"I think he's organizing a breakout." When both Fenris and Hrodwynn stared at him, he elaborated. "I did mention that I did a bit of scouting earlier. I found the master key for the cells, and since you were taking so long, I began setting the other prisoners free. Couldn't very well leave them in here to rot, could we? Now that Danarius is dead, Maker only knows when someone would be along to check on them, if ever. Anyway, when Varric came out, he took the keys and the prisoners down that way a bit. He's talking to them, making sure they understand their master is dead, and making sure they promise to free anyone else they come across. They should make quite a distraction, once they reach the outside. Help to add to the chaos and all that."

"Did you see Laconus?" Hrodwynn asked, her voice sounding tired and tiny and hesitant.

If he was surprised that she spoke, he kept the reaction well hidden. "No idea. Who's Laconus?" Hawke asked, shaking his head.

"One of the guards. He…" she had started answering, but stopped so quickly Fenris was sure she had stopped breathing. And he was sure he knew the cause.

"This Laconus," Fenris pressed, both wishing he could see her face, and thankful that he could not, "Is he the one who r— er, hurt you?" Blessed Andraste, but he had almost said That Word.

She seemed as disturbed as he by near-naming of what had been done to her, shaking her head quickly and vehemently. "No, ah, no." She licked again at her healed lip. Most of the dried blood and flecked away now that there was no longer a wound beneath, and she swept the last of it away with her tongue. "It was Laconus' job to keep me alive, until Danarius came back. Every time the other one finished…" she had to swallow the words choking in her throat before she could continue. "Laconus would visit after, with a healing potion, only he didn't this time. I thought, maybe, you might have seen him out here. He should be around somewhere."

"Maybe, maybe not. If this Laconus is still around," Varric tried to reassure her as he came trotting back down the hallway towards them, "He's probably fighting the pirates. Most likely, though, he's run off with the others; nearly all of the hired soldiers have fled. And quite a few of the slaves are finding they have a taste for freedom—once I convinced them that their master really is dead."

Hrodwynn seemed to curl in on herself a little tighter. "But HE will still be here."

"Laconus?" Varric asked, falling into step a little ahead of Fenris so he could glance back over his shoulder every once in a while. Only he was short enough to get a clear view of her face, of the fear and the pain and the remembered torment underlying her expressions. "I told you, he's probably fighting Isabela's crew…"

She shook her head, seeming to curl in on herself even tighter, but courageously fought to clarify, "No, the other one, the other Fenris, the one who…"

Her words broke, suddenly, completely, irreparably, as her lips clamped down tight to keep the sounds from escaping her. Everyone politely ignored the words she couldn't say; there would be time enough later to deal with all that had happened. Hawke, however, zeroed in on the words she had said. "The other Fenris?" he repeated, slowing his steps. He raised his eyes from Hrodwynn's ducked head—he couldn't see much more than her hair anyway—to look at the elf. "What other Fenris? Is there another one of you, running around here? A twin brother perhaps? Another sibling you haven't remembered yet?"

Fenris was in no mood for Hawke's droll quips. "No, Hawke, I don't have a twin. I only ever had the one sister. I know my memory is still spotty, coming back in bits and pieces here and there, but a brother I would remember. Especially if he looked like me."

"He's changed his appearance to make himself look like you," she whispered again, as if afraid of summoning the demon himself if she said too much. Yet she couldn't help herself, couldn't stop the secret, once it started spilling out of her mouth. "His hair… his clothing… his markings…"

Fenris stopped walking, the other two going a pace or two before they also stopped. They turned back, staring at her, but she wasn't meeting their gaze, her eyes locked within a horror only she could see.

"What do you mean by that?" There was a tingling sensation, crawling down Hawke's spine, uncomfortable and un-ignorable. It started at his neck, making the short hairs stand on end, before dripping down like ice water, hitting the small of his back and making him twitch. Automatically his hand went to his hip, ready to swing out his staff/mace if the situation called for it.

He never got the chance.

"I… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Fenris," she blubbered, squeezing the tears from her eyes, feeling the words burst out of her mouth before the force of her guilt, never seeing the lost and confused looks of the others as they struggled to try to understand her mingled and barely intelligible words, "But he tricked me. I never meant to betray you. But he showed up, and his hair was white, like yours. And he wore armor, like yours. And he had markings on his skin, like yours. And they were glowing, like yours. And… And I thought… it had to be you… no one else looks like you… but it wasn't… and by the time I figured that out, it was too late… I'd called him Fenris… and he… he…"

There was the pounding of bare feet, slapping the floor as they stepped out from the wall to their side.

There was a burst of light, bluish-white, exploding without dust or debris from the same wall.

There was another burst of light, almost reflexive, and definitely in response to the first burst.

A grunt, a gasp, a groan.

And then the hallway went dark once more.

It took a moment for Varric and Hawke to adjust their eyesight after the sudden change, blinking furiously to remove the stars. And by the time they could see again, one single fact was undeniable.

The two of them were alone.

…

"What the fuck!"

Two male voices cried out in unison, before going silent, also in unison. It was a full three heartbeats later before another sound was heard.

"Did…" the word popped out of Varric's mouth, bursting like a bubble. He had to take a deep and steadying breath before he could manage a full sentence. "You saw that, right? Tell me you saw that."

"If you mean," Hawke breathed, his amber eyes wide in the dim torchlight, "Did I see Fenris standing there, just now, with Hrodwynn in his arms, while another… Fenris…" he had no other word for it, "White hair and lyrium markings and grafted spirit hide armor—the whole thing! Another Fenris came phasing through that wall, bump into OUR Fenris, and all three of them… phasing… right through that other wall…?" His hand had been flapping, gesturing, trying to add articulation to his seemingly inadequate words. It hung there in the space before him, at a loss, two fingers twitching randomly just to have something to do.

"Yup, that about sums it up," Varric agreed, his own eyes wide. He blinked a few times to get them to return to normal, before clearing his throat. "I, ah, I didn't know he could do that."

"Do what?" Hawke's eyes were still staring at nothing, "Duplicate himself?"

"No, ah, phase someone else through a wall. I knew Fenris could pass through himself, but he couldn't take anyone with him. At least, he couldn't three years ago; remember that fiasco at the Orlesian Embassy, when he had to leave Hrodwynn behind because he couldn't take her with him through the wall? It seems he's found a way around that, this time."

"Yes, apparently so," Hawke coughed, trying to kick his brain into gear, "Erm, perhaps it had something to do with there being two of, ah, two of them, two people phasing, and they created a sphere of… phase-magic-thingyness… and Hrodwynn was caught up inside it, and was carried with them to… wherever…?"

Varric scoffed, "Leave the description and plot devices to us writers, Hawke, and just focus on what you do best."

"Which is?"

"Looking pretty. Come on, we'd better hurry."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Varric began jogging forwards, one had extended towards the wall the others had disappeared through, "Our friends are behind that wall somewhere. Don't you think we should catch up to them, just in case they might need a little help?"

"Yes, right." Hawke mentally slapped himself, coming to his senses. Sure, Fenris had disappeared through a wall with some unknown antagonist and was now out of their reach, but he could take care of himself, so no worries there. Yet Hrodwynn, barely starting to recover, after all she'd been through…

"Also, there's the mystery of the second Fenris." Varric was almost running, desperate to find a doorway through the wall. "Don't know about you, but I'd sure as hell would like to know if there really is another one of these phasing elves mucking about the place. Just in case he comes after me some day."

"Yes, well, again, good point," he was almost out of breath, struggling to keep up with the shorter limbed dwarf. Damn, but when Varric made up his mind to do something, the man could move fast. "But we don't know where they went, I mean, what's on the other side of this wall. They could have phased straight through to the outer courtyard for all we know."

"Nah, the wall's curved the wrong way," Varric countered, "Away from us, not towards us. There's a room behind that wall, a big room, and one we've got to find a way into if we're going to be of any help to our friends."

Hawke gave up pestering the dwarf, hearing the sharp and anxious tone in his voice. Varric was worried, and Hawke could grudgingly admit he was worried too—worried for Hrodwynn, who had looked so broken and weak and barely hanging on. But he was also worried for Fenris. It was beginning to become a little clearer now, Hrodwynn's mysterious statements earlier about there being two Fenrises; it must have been this other one who had, er, abused her. Hawke had very little doubt what Fenris would do to the man who had hurt her so badly.

He only hoped Fenris wouldn't destroy the entire Keep in his quest for revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it's taken awhile, but I've been working on these two chapters—this one and the next, because even though the last chapter might have seemed like a cliffhanger, this is the real cliffhanger, and you know I never want to leave you guys hanging for too long, so both chapters had to be written before I could start posting.
> 
> Also, work's been a bitch again, but since when is that new? Anyway, the next chapter will be out in a day or two, just want to do a final once-over before posting.
> 
> As always and ever, thank you for every kudos, subscription, and comment! *HUGS*


	30. When Your Past Catches Up with You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised…

It was the oddest sensation.

Hrodwynn had felt it a couple of times before, once when Fenris phased her hand with his to feel the inside of a practice lock.

There'd been another time, panicky and rushed as they tried to escape the Orlesian Embassy by Fenris phasing them both through the wall—a feat he hadn't been able to manage on his own. But he managed it this time. With help.

It was unnerving, cold, like falling into a mountain stream, only without the sensation of touching anything. It was more like the sensation of touching… well, nothing. Which was disturbing in its own right, as she KNEW Fenris was still touching her, still holding her in his arms, while someone else—fucking-shit it was the false Fenris!—wrapped his arms around them both. Yet even though she wasn't infused with lyrium, they all three passed through the wall, holding on with grip-less fingers, to emerge from the other side as a tumbling mass of limbs.

She rolled the farthest, either because she wasn't as heavy as the other two with their armor, or because she provided less angles to reduce her moment. Either way, cocooned as she was inside Hawke's cloak, as soon as they were through the wall, she flew from Fenris' grasp and rolled across the floor, spinning and twirling until she came to rest several yards beyond them. For a moment she lay there, gasping, trying to catch her breath, willing the world to stop tilting. She lifted her head up, blinking away the tears, trying to focus her vision on the two men gaining their feet and squaring off to face each other.

She was right; there were two of them, two Fenrises, two men with white hair and grafted spirit hide armor and lyrium tattoos. Feeling somewhat placated, she let her head fall back to the floor, and knew no more.

Fenris could not afford the luxury of passing out. He had been surprised, blindsided technically, when another man had phased through a wall and come towards them. Fenris had done the only thing he could, instinctively, without hesitation, and invoked the lyrium in his own flesh, even as the other one tackled both he and Hrodwynn. The momentum carried all three of them through the opposite wall and into this room, a chamber he knew all too well; this was where his life irrevocably changed. Yet he ignored his surroundings for the moment, knowing he had a far more serious and dangerous matter to focus on—the other Fenris.

He wore armor much like Fenris', the grafted spirit hide meticulously made in a similar procedure as the one that fused the lyrium with flesh, so as to be able to phase through objects just like the person who wore it. The other man's lyrium tattoos were the same, too, each line and curve and swirl and pinpoint an exact match to his. Even the man's hair was as white as his own.

But that's where the similarities ended. The other's build was taller, thicker limbed, definitely that of a human male. His hair had been light brown in color, judging by his eyebrows, and in looking closer Fenris could see that he had purposely colored the hair on his head to be white. Added all together, it was obvious that this man had gone to great lengths to impersonate Fenris. No wonder Hrodwynn had been tricked…

Venhedis! he cursed inside his mind. This man… he… what he did… to Hrodwynn…

Even worse, Fenris now remembered him.

"Ma-Matthias!" he gasped, clutching at the stitch in his side. He wasn't hurt, perhaps bruised, but it was mostly the surprise that stole his breath away.

"Leto!" the other countered, joyously sneering at him, relishing their reunion far more than was warranted, "No, wait, I mean Fenris. That's what she calls you, right? Fenris-s-s-s-s-s…"

Alarm bells rang in his head louder than the screams of demons from the Fade. This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. Fenris had to stall, had to buy some time for Hawke and Varric to find them and get to them—because he was going to need their help. He knew he couldn't take Matthias in a fair fight; he certainly hadn't the last time. And he had no idea what it would be like this time, both of them branded with lyrium, and with no master to command them to stop—this fight would be anything but fair. "Danarius gave me that name."

"Listen to yourself, would you? Danarius, you say. Not Master. Not Lord. You have the audacity to call our master by his first name…"

"He is no longer my master," Fenris growled out, the topic would forever be a sore spot with him. He took a moment to calm himself, remembering his training, how to meditate during a conflict so he could set aside his emotions and concentrate on his opponent, allowing him to examine his enemy's skills and techniques in order to exploit a weakness. Slowly he began circling, trying to place himself between Matthias and Hrodwynn, all the while studying how Matthias moved. For good measure, he exaggerated a limp, hoping Matthias would think he was already injured, praying the man would underestimate him.

Matthias didn't take the bait, sneering at and quickly dismissing Fenris' affected gait. Neither did he allow himself to be outmaneuvered, circling Hrodwynn and staying between them. Yet he did grow angry and emotional over Fenris' words. "Vishante kaffas, you ungrateful, knife-eared, pig! Our master chose you! He made you great! He gave you this amazing gift." He lifted a gauntleted hand, the lyrium glowing like a torch. "And how do you repay him? By running away? That doesn't make you free."

"Danarius is dead," Fenris insisted, battling to keep himself calmer while trying to make Matthias grow angrier, "By my own hand. That makes me free!"

Matthias hesitated a moment, almost convinced, before he shook his head. "I don't believe you. And even if that were true, that doesn't make you free; that makes you a murderer! Worse than that! You killed your own master…"

The blow was quick, coming from the side and down low, aiming directly for the stitch in Fenris' side. It was a blow meant to break ribs or at the very least crack them, Matthias' fist tightened up and his knuckles protruding. It was a preemptive strike, one that would cause an injury just serious enough to hurt and slow and distract one's opponent.

It was also predictable—though in a strange way. Fenris saw the blow coming, not so much from his study of Matthias' body language, but from his clouded recollection. It was surreal, a sort of déjà vu that came not so much from the impression that he had done this before, as from the freshly re-remembered memory that he had done this before. He twisted back out of the way, allowing Matthias' hand to glance harmlessly off of him without doing damage, and allowing Fenris to raise his arm and block the blow from the other side that Matthias would be throwing next. He felt the force of something striking the part of his gauntlet that protected his forearm, and knew he had assumed correctly.

Next Fenris took a step back, turning sideways and using his hands to block a kick aimed for his gut. There was a pause, and he couldn't ignore the feeling that he should be doing something, swinging wildly at Matthias as he staggered backwards from the blow—as he had done before. But he hadn't been hit in the gut this time, so he didn't need to stagger, and instead stood there, unsure what to do next. Matthias hesitated, too, almost at as much of a loss as he was, but he recovered quicker and swung again, while Fenris simply waited and pre-reacted to his next half-remembered attack.

As blow after blow occurred, or rather nearly occurred, he realized something very profound: they HAD had this fight before, he and Matthias. It was the same fight, the exact same set of attacks and counters, that they had fought all those years go. It had been here, in this very arena, where Fenris and Matthias and dozens of others competed to become Danarius' experiment, competed to win the boon. Most of them had fought to the death. A few had been maimed. But eventually—after all the bouts, all the broken bones and spilt blood, all the pain both endured and inflicted—only Fenris and Matthias had remained standing.

It had been a struggle every step of the way for Fenris, but Varania had been there, in the stands, her bright-red hair easily picked out from the crowd. It had been a rare treat, Danarius allowing family members to watch the competition, and it served Fenris' well. She had been his constant inspiration, his reason for why he couldn't lose, why he couldn't surrender. If he didn't win, if he didn't use the boon to free her and mother, then Hadriana would get her hands on Varania and do unspeakable things, experiments, agonies…

And now, today, Hrodwynn was there, her dark red hair just visible over Matthias' shoulder, a constant reminder of why he couldn't lose, only this time the unspeakable things had already been done to her.

Back then, Leto had fought, a young and fairly scrawny elven slave, untutored and unsophisticated in the ways of combat. But he had heart, he had resolve, and he had more reason to win than any other slave there that day. Matthias had been bigger than him, taller and thicker and outweighing him by at least four stone; an unequal match if ever there was one. And though Leto had fought hard and long, though Leto had tried every trick he knew—and more than a few he made up on the spot—he had been no match for the stronger and more powerful Matthias.

It was almost sad in a way, Fenris hummed to himself, blocking another kick before countering with a jab into the soft and fleshy part of the thigh. Here they were, the two of them, back in this room, this arena, where it all began, a place Matthias had never left, it seemed. Where Fenris had changed, grown, and studied, Matthias had held on to his lost victory with bitter resolve, reliving it over and over in his mind. He had remained stagnant, un-evolved, and trapped, never realizing one very powerful, and equally inescapable truism: if life doesn't evolve and grow, it dies.

Such as Fenris' blow to the inside of his leg, jabbing at the femoral artery and a cluster of nerves nearby. It was something that hadn't played out the last time, something that Leto hadn't known to do, but rather something that a trained and studied Fenris had learned. And so this time around, Matthias hadn't expected it, hadn't anticipated that his opponent would do anything other than what he had done the last time. Matthias cried out, surprised by the change as well as the burst of pain, and limped back out of the way to regroup.

Fenris appreciated the reprieve, needing his own moment to regroup, before he was mentally driven to distraction. Leto was there, in his head, coming through in fits and spurts. But it wasn't as if Fenris was Leto any longer; it was more like Leto was another person, his memories coming back disjointed and separate from Fenris, like a book he had read or a story he had heard. Yes, Leto was a real person, had been a real person, and had a life and a family and trials and triumphs just as an other person. But Leto was not Fenris. And though this room, this battle, brought more and more of Leto's past to light, it was still Fenris who stood there—not Leto, Fenris who fought for his loved one—not Leto, and Hrodwynn who relied upon him to save her—not Varania.

Fenris had changed, and there was one very important and obvious way he had changed, since his last battle with Matthias. In a flash, he lunged forward, going on the attack, no longer waiting for the half-remembered-already-played-out battle from years ago. In the time since then, he had come to learn that his body, though thin, did have muscle, long and lean muscles that were deceptively stronger than they appeared. He grappled at Matthias, tackling him around his waist, his momentum carrying them both through the air for several yards before hitting the ground with a solid thud. Matthias grunted, the air knocked out of him for a moment. The next moment he nearly choked when Fenris' gauntleted hand phased into his throat.

"You…!"

"Careful, Matthias," Fenris warned, "One wrong twitch, and I could accidentally break your neck."

Matthias' eyes dropped to where his arm was glowing with bluish-white light, and suddenly he began to laugh. Broken, smothered, but it was laughter, spurting out of his mouth with a mixture of blood and spittle. "You… never learned… enough about… our… power…"

He shouldn't fall for it, he knew he shouldn't fall for it, but curiosity was ever the downfall of even the wisest of men. "What do you mean?" he eased his fingers, just a little, and demanded, "Answer me!"

Matthias managed a big smile, his teeth and gums stained pink, "The rules are different… when there's two…"

The human invoked his lyrium, phasing into that between state already occupied by Fenris' hand. Now it was Fenris' turn to cry out, his hand feeling like it had partially solidified inside a wall or some other solid mass. Matthias looked to be in about as much pain as he, but didn't flinch.

Fenris, surprised, did flinch. He flinched and tried to pull his hand away, instinctively, but it was stuck fast. This was something new, something unexpected, something he hadn't considered beforehand in his meditative state, but he should have. He'd seen the markings, he'd seen Matthias phase through a wall and carry both he and Hrodwynn through another wall—of course Matthias could use the lyrium in his body as Fenris used the lyrium in his own. But this unusual result of what happens when both their bodies phased into the same place, this was not something he could have anticipated.

He did the only thing he could do. He solidified his hand, becoming corporeal once more and leaving Matthias phased. The pain eased somewhat, or at least changed from imploding compression to excruciating dispersement, yet he remained unable to pull free. Matthias, however, was able to move, bunching his legs which weren't phased and throwing Fenris off.

The elf flew threw the air, taken off guard at first but quickly recovering. He rolled as he hit the floor for a third time, absorbing the force and coming to rest crouched on his feet. One hand braced against the ground, only the fingertips touching, as he stared and studied his opponent while Matthias staggered to his feet. A new aspect of their fight was now taking shape in his mind; no longer were they reliving the battle from before. They had turned a corner and were on new ground, forging a path down a new trail, leaving predictability behind and racing into the unknown.

But one thing from before had remained unchanged: Fenris was outmatched.

"Alluvin valla kal."

"You first," Matthias coughed, rubbing at his aching throat. Suddenly he dropped his hand and lunged forward, his right side leading the way, coming up on Fenris fast, gauntlets clenched into fists. Fenris rose up from his crouch, studying the maneuver, and prepared himself for a kick from Matthias' left leg. He wasn't disappointed, easily blocking the leg that came swinging as soon as he was within reach. Next Fenris ducked, avoiding the second kick from the other leg. Almost in the same heartbeat he struck back, his balled fist striking at Matthias' unguarded groin, only to find himself off balance and falling forwards as his hand passed through Matthias' phased body. With no other choice, and wanting a bit of space to regroup once more, Fenris used the power in his legs to propel the rest of himself after his fist, passing completely through Matthias and coming to a stop behind him. He spun and assumed a fighting stance of his own as Matthias also spun to face him.

"Nice trick," he allowed, keeping most of the ire out of his voice, "But I've used that one myself."

"Oh, I'm sure you have. You've no doubt learned quite a few tricks, some, anyway," Matthias also allowed, "The easier ones, the more obvious ones you would have stumbled across on your own. But after you left—after you ran away!—our master took the time to do a little more research into this… style, let's call it. This style of warrior."

"You're talking too much," Fenris ground out, letting his irritation show. Actually, he was grateful for Matthias' blathering; it helped stall for time, which would allow Varric and Hawke to find the entrance and reach them. And he knew, the more he complained about it, the more Matthias would talk.

Which he did. "I want you to know, I want you to understand, that leaving our master to die in Seheron was the worst mistake of your life!" He threw a knife from his belt, aimed directly for Fenris' chest, which the elf quickly phased so the knife could pass harmlessly through. Matthias followed the knife, however, or rather his fist did, passing into Fenris' chest… and then glowing as his lyrium was invoked.

"Venhedis!" Fenris gasped, or tried to. It wasn't quite the same as what he would do, passing into someone's chest and wrapping his fist around their heart, because they were both phased. But it was similar enough to give him a glimpse into the horror of FEELING and SEEING another person holding your very heart—your very life—in their hands.

But with both of them infused with lyrium, the pain was… difficult to explain. It was like a pressure, an almost electrical sensation, somewhat akin to the feel in the air just before lightning strikes. But it was also more than that. There was a sort of reverse-wind without movement, like the attraction of magnets or the suction of an undertow, a sensation of two separate things trying to, and wanting to, occupy the same space. And the more of them that became phased together, the more of the rest of their bodies that wanted to join the phased part.

It was an all but irresistible force, but he resisted it. With a feral cry, stunted and slurred thanks to Matthias' fist, he threw his own, though solid, fist directly at the man's temple, making him stagger backwards and taking his hand with him. Fenris gasped as they broke free, his lyrium dulling, his fingers rubbing at the spot on his torso, needing to make sure there were no holes left behind. Though his ears were ringing from the blow, Matthias recovered his focus quicker, and countered with a kick aimed directly at the elf's now-solid chest, and once more Fenris found himself falling horizontally through the air.

He slammed into the wall with a crash, limbs splayed, knocking over a weapons rack and sending the blades scattering across the floor. He barely managed to get his feet beneath him and keep himself from falling all the way to the floor. As he straightened up, he resisted the urge this time to rub at his chest, ignoring that part of his mind which was imaging he could still feel Matthias' fist around his heart, and that mysterious force trying to pull their bodies into one. He sunk himself back into his meditative state, and tried to predict what Matthias' next move might be.

"Now, I think, now at long last, you're beginning to see your folly," Matthias gloated. "After Seheron, after our master finally made it home safe and sound, the first thing he did was to send out men to track you down and bring you back. The lyrium in your body—our bodies—is very expensive. He wanted to take it back, out of you—you ungrateful knife-eared bastard—and reuse it to make a new warrior, a better warrior, a more faithful warrior.

"Oh, he had his doubts about you from the start," Matthias was circling Fenris now, kicking a dagger out of the way as he forced the elf to retreat, "He told me so himself, when he chose me to be his second warrior. He said, he only chose you over me, not because you were the better fighter; I proved I was the best fighter he had! But he chose you, because you never gave up. Even when you were defeated, even when I was seconds away from breaking your spine, you would not admit defeat. He like that about you, our master did, and that's why YOU were chosen over ME.

"But he did know your reason for not giving up, your mother and sister. That was touching, yes, but it was your weakness, your downfall. Our master doubted your resolve to keep to your part of the bargain, once your family was freed. He doubted you would remain so faithful and indomitable, without their presence as a constant reminder. So he had your memory wiped, as part of The Procedure, gave you a new name, a new purpose, and kept you in the dark about your past so as to keep your faithfulness. You'll note," Matthias grinned, an expression that was cruel and vicious on his lips, "That I still have my memories."

Keep talking, just keep talking, I don't care what the fuck you say as long as you keep talking…

"That's because my motivation isn't as, oh, let's call it, 'selfless' as your's. I didn't want this for another; I wanted this for myself. I didn't want women or gold or freedom. I cared nothing for the boon. I WANTED everyone to know that I was the strongest, that I was our master's favorite, that I was the BEST! That's why my memory wasn't wiped, once our master had enough lyrium scraped together to perform The Procedure again. Not being able to capture you and remove the lyrium from your flesh did set him back for a time, but only for a few years. When he was ready to try again, he chose ME! He explained to me where he went wrong with you. He explained how he could see it now, that I was the better choice. And he knew he wouldn't have to manipulate me to keep me at his side, because I WANTED to be at his side. He knew he could trust me, because I wanted everyone to know that I deserved this position and power and glory. And I have never failed him, unlike you have."

"He's dead, Matthias," Fenris countered, "By my hand, remember? I'd say, that would constitute an epic fail."

Wrong thing to say, Fenris realized too late. It angered Matthias, true, and made him emotional and impulsive and reckless, but it also stopped the ranting. He lunged at Fenris, arms spread in a grappling posture, gauntleted fingers resembling talons, face screwed up and reddened with rage. "LIAR!" he screamed as they fell to the floor in a mess of limbs and leather and lyrium.

It was a difficult fight, undisciplined, without stratagem or goal, more like a towering ire or a force of nature. And it was hard for Fenris to maintain his meditative state, to study Matthias so he could know when to phase his face before those talons could tear his flesh from his cheekbone, or when to grow solid before the same fist could phase itself with his brain-matter. His own taloned fingers shoved deep into Matthias' eye socket, only to find he phased through as well.

The knee to his groin was not expected, coming down hard and solid and thankfully missing his more sensitive bits, but finding the inside of his thigh and pinching it painfully against the floor. He punched at Matthias' head again, counting on the fact that he would phase through, swinging his other leg up and around Matthias' hips and using the momentum to roll them over, switching positions.

"Why!" Fenris demanded, trying to think, trying to find a way to get Matthias talking again. "Why did you do it? Why did you put yourself through The Procedure? Didn't you see what it did to me? The constant pain? The obvious markings that make everyone stare at you?"

"I…" Matthias' tried to do the same trick Fenris had just done, but of course that was expected and easily countered. He went deceptively calm for a moment, which perversely left Fenris more on edge, before he answered, "I like the attention."

Matthias finally had a plan. Fenris gasped as he disappeared, invoking so much of the lyrium that he faded from view, becoming less substantial than mist. The elf felt something cool without substance pass through him, and knew Matthias had gotten away.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Matthias' ethereal voice floated from around the room as the almost undetectable shade circled him like a slowly rotating tornado. "If you had stayed, you might have learned this little trick, too. But you didn't stay. You betrayed our master. So when he put in more research, more study about what type of warriors we could be, about our talents and abilities, about our potential, he gave all that knowledge to me. He trained me in techniques you haven't even dreamed of. I didn't go through all this to be more like you, Fenris."

The voice seemed far away, but Fenris wasn't fooled. He didn't flinch in the slightest when the voice was suddenly right behind him.

"Because I've always been better than you!"

He swung, making to strike hard and fast at the back of Fenris' neck. But then Fenris, too, faded into nothing before Matthias' taloned fingers could make contact with flesh.

"You're not superior, Matthias, not quite yet," Fenris countered. Now he was the one floating about the room, watching the other searching for him. "You may have learned a lot from studying ancient manuscripts where half the ink has faded, buy my teacher was experience. It's one thing to practice on a matted floor, where your opponent will stop and give you a breather once you tap out. It's quite another, when you're fighting for your life, when tapping out means death. You discover things about yourself in those moments, truths you might never have faced, depths to your soul you might never have explored, if you hadn't been forced to do so."

"Is that so?" Matthias turned ethereal again, and the two were completely blocked from each other's sight. "And yet, I seem to be able to outmaneuver you at every turn."

"Oh?" Fenris had to judge Matthias' location on his voice alone, giving him even more motivation to keep him talking.

"I knew you'd be coming here, I was expecting you, but you had no way of expecting me. And I knew what would happen, when the two of us phased together. You hadn't anticipated that."

"Quite true," Fenris allowed, thinking Matthias was near the upset weapons rack, "I hadn't."

"And," Matthias' voice was oozing with ugliness, "I gave that girl of yours the tumble of her life! I've ruined her for you, for other men. Forever. That's a move you can never counter."

The pain of that statement rang through Fenris' ears, bypassing his brain and landing directly at his heart, staggering him. Oh, Blessed Andraste, or merciful Maker, how true and ugly were those words. He'd already seen the signs of it, her reluctance to being touched, to even looking at him, especially when his markings were glowing. "Is that why?" he breathed, fighting to sound calm, "Is that why you did all this? Made yourself look like me? The armor? The lyrium? The hair?"

Matthias laughed, the sound coming from just beside Hrodwynn's still form. "Not at first, no. I wanted the lyrium, I wanted to be our master's favorite, for the status alone. When she showed up, when I learned who she was to you, Master Danarius told me I could do with her as I wished, just so long as I didn't kill her. That is to be your fate, you know: once Master Danarius recaptured you and brought you home in chains, he would graciously allow a touching reunion with your love. Only she would know already that your memory was to be wiped again, before Master Danarius would order you to kill her. And she knew it, knew every detail of what was coming; I made sure of it."

Fenris trembled at that, even though Danarius was dead, because of all the suffering Hrodwynn must have gone through, all the torment, all the anguish. No wonder she wasn't as overjoyed to see him as she should have been, even considering the abuse, not if she had been told that their reunion would be the preamble to her death.

"But that first time," Matthias sighed, phasing just a little back into reality, just enough to be able to ruffle a lock of her hair, "Fasta vass, that first time… What a fight! Maker, how she got my blood racing." He laughed, wicked and sadistic, freezing Fenris' blood, freezing him to the spot. He grew more solid as he leaned over her and licked the side of her face. "You know, when she first saw me, when I first entered her cell, phasing through the door, she cried out in relief and called me Fenris. Me. She thought I was you." He laughed again, leaning back from her, his hand now tugging at the neck of the cloak, thinking to pull it away from her. "That's what gave me the idea. Oh, she figured it out quick enough, that I was not you. But by that time, it didn't matter. I knew what I could do, I had a plan, on how to spoil your eventual reunion even further. So, yes, I dyed my hair to match yours. And I took to going barefoot… anything I could think of, really, to match your description. One thing that's always puzzled me, however: how the fuck do you manage it, going around barefooted all the time? I feel like I'm going to stub my toe, or step into something unpleasant and have to wash my feet. Bleh."

The inner turmoil was gargantuan, a tsunami of emotion, anger and pain and love and fear and angst… But the suddenly irrelevant comment about the boots gave Fenris' mind something to focus on, something to distract him from the emotions he was not currently equipped to handle. He took a breath, then another, then a plan began to form inside his head. He knew, he understood, that there would be no more stalling, that Varric and Hawke would not reach them in time. He also knew what he had to do. With a direction and a purpose once more, he was able to calm himself enough and answer, "I've always wondered how you humans manage to keep your balance, without your toes free to grip the ground."

His own toes were gripping the ground, as he came back into solid form. He dove for the final time at Matthias, hitting him solidly in the shoulder, pulling him away from Hrodwynn. The two men rolled, end-over-end, across the floor, phasing and grappling and cursing and clawing. It was how their first fight had ended, something perhaps Fenris should have avoided, but with that other plan in place, he knew it truly didn't matter what position they ended up in. So yes, he played his part—the part of Leto—and wrestled with a human twice his size. He struggled and bit and taunted and kicked… and eventually lost.

"Now, this is sad," Matthias hummed. He was on top of Fenris, a knee in his back, his hands on Fenris' wrists and pulling his arms behind him so far they were nearly dislocated. Fenris' torso was curved, bent backwards around Matthias' knee, and on the verge of breaking. He could hardly breathe, twisted as he was, but he didn't struggle any longer—he couldn't even phase himself free, as Matthias kept shifting with him, causing him even more pain until he stopped trying and accepted his fate.

The last time they had fought, the two of them had reached this exact spot, Matthias reluctantly offering him the option of surrender. Leto had refused to give up, and Matthias had been about to break his back and kill him, when Danarius commanded they stop.

When Danarius chose Leto as the winner.

But there would be no winner today. Maybe Varric and Hawke; they were far enough away, they probably would survive the coming blast. And Hrodwynn might, if the Maker was kind and spared her, but he and Matthias were finished.

"Our master isn't here this time to spare you."

"Who said…" venhedis, but it was a battle just to speak, "Anything… about… sparing… our lives…"

"Our…?" Matthias repeated, only now beginning to wonder why Fenris had tried something he knew would fail, only now beginning to think he might have an ulterior motive, only now seeing how this might turn out differently than before. "No…"

"Yes," Fenris panted, the lyrium in his flesh coming to life. But he didn't use it to phase out. He built it up, the energy within him, possibly his very life-force, but every ounce of anger and fear and love, every urging of necessity, every impulse of instinct, every fiber of his nature. It all grew within him, combined with the lyrium, spreading around him like a white-hot dome of pure power.

"NO!" Matthias repeated, building up his own spirit pulse, using it to hold Fenris' at bay. "How did you know about… never mind… you can't do this… it's suicide!"

"Better that," he admitted, "Than allowing you to suffer one more day of breathing."

He pushed even harder, trying to pulse out at Mathias, trying to break through his barrier, trying to kill him.

"I told you…" Matthias grunted, trying to stay ahead of Fenris, "With there being… two of us… the rules… are different…"

"I heard you," Fenris was growing calmer, knowing they would eventually tire and their pulses would flare and combine and kill them both.

"But you'll… you'll bring the whole mansion down on our heads! You'll kill her, too! Is that what you want?!"

Fenris turned his head towards Hrodwynn's form. She was moving, sluggish and slow, encumbered by the cloak, struggling into consciousness. Maker willing, she wouldn't have the time to become fully aware before the end. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, not wishing to see what might happen to her next. "After the pain she's endured… after the torment you've put her through… it'll be a mercy, sending her to the Maker's side, giving her eternal peace."

Matthias growled again, desperate and fearful and angry and almost animalistic. "I'll… I'll kill you, first… I'll break your back…" the pressure on his spine increased, "I'll tear your arms off…" one of his shoulders dislocated, "I'll drive the pulse against you, smother you into the very floor, shatter your very fibers apart."

Fenris cried out, feeling something like tearing happening near the small of his back.

Suddenly the pressure all but stopped. A knife had been thrown, unerringly, at Matthias' face. It couldn't penetrate the pulse building around them, there had been no hope of that. But that had never been the knife's purpose. It had sailed across the room, aimed directly for Matthias' eye, but not to pierce his skull and sink into his brainpan. It had been meant to attract his eye, to flash with reflected torchlight, to spin and tumble and ricochet off at an angle.

It had been meant only as a distraction, and it worked.

Fenris pulled his arms free, not even having to phase Matthias' was so startled by the blade. He braced his good arm against the floor and twisted around, feeling his back protest the movement but still allow it. Matthias leaned away, just that fatally small amount, and Fenris was able to take control of both their spirit pulses, combine them, and send them against Matthias. At the very last moment, he tried to focus the energy, the main force of it at least, upwards at Matthias and away from anyone standing off to the side. But there was only so much control one could claim over a force of nature.

The pulse spread itself outwards from him, knocking down anything that was upright, sending the dislodged weapons rack—and all the others—skittering across the floor. The torches had been blown out, their fires smothered from the shockwave.

Yet the main force of the explosion and been focused at Matthias, hitting him squarely, blowing him up and away, fragmenting him into matter finer than mist before slamming into the ceiling. The timbers and stonework high overhead shook for a moment, hundreds of years of dust getting knocked off to rain down. Fenris held his breath, in part to keep from choking on the congealed dust, in part to pray that the ceiling would not shatter apart and fall down on his head. He waited in darkness to learn of his fate: life, or death.

After a few minutes of listening to creaking timbers, grinding rocks, sudden showers of dust and debris, the air eventually grew quiet. It appeared, thank the Maker, that life was to be his fate after all. Then a new sound reached his ears, the soft pants of another person, and he knew Hrodwynn miraculously had survived as well. He rolled onto his side, groaned as his back protested but amazingly it was still working properly, and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

It was tempting, it was so very tempting he almost did it without thought, he almost invoked his lyrium brands to give himself some light to see by. But he remembered what Matthias had done to Hrodwynn, and worried what she might think—what she might feel—if he came at her now, glowing in the darkness. So he kept his markings muted and, using sound alone to guide him, he began crawling and pulling himself across the floor, hands groping as though blind, searching faithfully for what he knew had to be there.

As it turned out, Hrodwynn wasn't hard to find. She had been knocked down by the explosion, but thankfully hadn't sustained any serious injury. She was already sitting up, too, sitting and listening and waiting for whatever it was crawling towards her. She heard the soft grunts of effort, the pants of pain, the slithering of hurt limbs being dragged across the floor. Alone in the darkness as she was, her mind should have been imagining all sorts of horrors and monsters approaching her out of the pitch blackness. But she had already suffered through hell. She had already fought monsters. There was nothing more that could frighten her.

Especially with a knife in her hand. True, her right hand was still twisted and tucked securely inside the cloak, but very few knew she was ambidextrous, that she could use her left hand just as easily as her right. That's the arm that was now outside the cloak. That's the hand that had precisely thrown the dagger at Matthias. That's the hand that, even now, held a second dagger ready to swipe forward and slash through the windpipe of whatever was crawling towards her. As if sensing this, sensing her thoughts, her motives, her plans, the slithering stopped just a few feet from her.

The panting continued, exhausted and battered yet still victorious. Then a voice spoke, that lovely and longed-for voice, that deep and gravely voice, speaking that one word that she alone ever heard, "Amatus."

Tears broke, unseen in the darkness, escaping her lashes to rain unfelt onto the cloak. Her hand dropped to her side, the knife shoved away, before she reached out into the black and answered, "Fen."

Two sets of fingers found each other, twisting themselves into lover’s knots.

Light burst onto them, spilling from a doorway that was still opening up. There was a figure kneeling there, silhouetted to one side of the frame, tall and slender and full of curves as she stood up. It wasn’t hard to imagine the twinkle in her eyes as she called out, “Found them!”

“At long last,” a second figure voiced a long-suffering sigh, pushing around the first to race into the room, a wicked-looking, long-handled mace held tightly within his fist. “Fenris! Hrodwynn! Are you alright?”

“More importantly,” Varric followed on Hawke’s heels, torch in hand, “Where’s the other one?”

“Right, almost forgot about that,” Isabela purred, striding into the chamber with two more men in tow, each carrying torches. “The other Fenris. I’d like to meet him.” As they approached the two figures on the floor, as the torches brought more and more of the scene to light, Isabela’s eyes narrowed down into two vengeful slits of righteous retribution. “I’d really like to meet him. Now. Where is he.”

It was less a request and more a command. Fenris, however, was too battered and fatigued to give an answer. Upon seeing their friends arrive, and knowing that they were safe—at least from Matthias—his inexhaustible reserves were finally exhausted. He allowed himself to lie back onto the floor, easing his back into a more comfortable position, holding his injured shoulder with his other hand. Hrodwynn had let go of his fingers at the first sign of light, not out of guilt but more from being startled. She sat there, her face turned towards the others, but from his prone position he could see her eyes would lift no higher than their knees.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

No one had ever heard Isabela’s voice so deep, so full of anger and rage. Fenris was unable to answer, however, so Hrodwynn had to. “He’s gone,” she breathed, sniffed, then used her hand to rub hard and slow at her cheek, stretching and pulling the skin where Matthias had licked her.

Fenris closed his eyes; if he could raise Matthias from the dead, just to kill him again, he would. He swallowed thickly, stuffing away the guilt and anger—that wasn’t going to help Hrodwynn right now. He had to be strong, for her sake. He willed away the pain, both emotional and physical, and added, “Spirit pulse. I blew him apart.”

“Damn, that must’ve been some kind of a fight,” Varric drawled, gazing around the chamber, following Fenris’ trail where he had dragged himself through the dust, back to where it lay thickest on the floor. It was almost comical, the outline of a body still there, where the dust had settled all around—and on top—of the elf right after he had blown Matthias into nothingness. “Couldn’t have saved even a little bit for us, huh? Greedy elf.”

“You’re quite welcome to sweep up the dust.”

“Did… did you just make a joke?”

“I quipped, it’s different,” he deadpanned, suppressing the gasp of pain as Hawke helped him to sit up. Sweat broke out over his forehead as his back spasmed and his arm hung awkwardly from his shoulder, but he managed to keep his voice normal as he added, “I see Isabela’s joined us, so the fighting must be over.”

“Wasn’t much of a fight to begin with,” Isabela sighed,  slipping her daggers back into their sheaths, now that she knew there’d be no chance for her to exact her own revenge. “The slaves of course didn’t fight, so we left them alone,” she added before Fenris could object. “And most of the soldiers wisely chose the option of seeking new employment with a patron who wasn’t deceased. But the treasure was right where you said it would be, Fenris. Thanks for that. I’ve left Merril in charge of seeing it brought safely back to my ship and stowed away.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I, er, suppose you’re expecting a share of it, some sort of finder’s fee?”

He twisted his neck and glanced over his shoulder to where he could see Hrodwynn. “I have what I came for.”

“Good. We should get going, then. You two,” she turned to the two crewmen who had accompanied her. “Scout ahead, make sure the way back to the ship is clear.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind a share of the treasure, if you’re handing out free samples,” Varric protested.

“It would have to be free,” Isabela snarked, “As you didn’t do anything to help secure the treasure.”

“I was with Hawke and Fenris,” he argued, “Looking for Button. Which, you’ll remember, is the whole reason why we came here in the first place.”

“And you would probably still be running around down here, lost,” she countered, “If I hadn’t come along…”

Hrodwynn’s face was turned away from Fenris, watching the two banter. He took advantage of the distraction to set his shoulder, using the lyrium to do so. Hawke made a face and leaned back, but other than that gave no sign that anything untoward had happened.

“Help me up.”

Hawke stared at the hand, not because it had just been phased, but because he really didn’t think Fenris could stand on his own at that moment. “No, first you’re taking a healing potion,” he began fumbling at the pouch on his waist. “Then, we’ll see if you can keep your feet.”

Fenris panted, his back spasming with pain, his shoulder still throbbing, but he knew the offered healing potion would help with that. He took the bottle, unstoppered it with his teeth as he really didn’t want to use his hurt arm at all, and lifted it in a toast. “Benefaris.”

“Bless you,” he answered, the word sounding more like a sneeze than a toast. He turned away, preferring to watch the banter still going on than remember the sight of Fenris phasing his own hand into his own flesh…

“Hawke,” Fenris grunted, tossing aside the empty phial, “Would you mind carrying Hrodwynn? I don’t think I can manage it at the moment.” Maker, how he longed to take her in his arms, but that wouldn’t be prudent right now.

There was something else Fenris wasn’t saying, but Hawke for once didn’t press the issue. “Yes, of course. Come along, my dear. Let’s resume this rescue, shall we?”

Isabela broke off her affected banter with the dwarf. She had seen out of the corner of her eye, when Hawke moved to do as Fenris asked, how Hrodwynn had braced herself, as if shoring up her courage to be touched. She knew the signs, far better than any man could understand, and moved to head him off. “Oh, let me do that. You’d probably drop her on her head, trying to juggle both Button and your staff, erm, I mean, mace.” She eyed Hawke, somewhat menacingly, but he submissively stepped back from the two women, hands spread in a placating gesture—his mace was once more secured to his back, but he didn’t point that out. Then she knelt down and set her hand on Hrodwynn’s bare shoulder, smiling warmly and reassuringly when the girl looked up to her face. “Come on, luv, let’s go home.”

Hrodwynn nodded in answer and allowed Isabela to scoop her up with far less reluctance than she had felt for Hawke. If Isabela was surprised at how light she was, thanks to her month-long imprisonment, she gave no sign. Instead she started for the doorway, all the while speaking softly and encouragingly to Hrodwynn, letting the men follow at their own pace.

Hrodwynn didn’t answer, didn’t try to contribute to the conversation Isabela was having with her. Normally, that would concern Fenris, but after everything that had happened… he was heartened, because he saw Hrodwynn relax, tuck her head into the crook of Isabela’s neck, even wrap her good arm around her back.

And if anyone noticed any trembling, or saw any tears, or heard any sobs, it was never mentioned.


	31. Surrender

"Leave it, elf."

The words were spoken softly, without malice, but with an air of command that could not be ignored. Fenris, however, still gave it a half-hearted attempt. His steps may have hesitated as Isabela carried Hrodwynn through a doorway and into the bowels of her ship, but his eyes refused to leave her form, not even after the darker interior swallowed them and the door closed solidly behind them. It was only after a sailor, accidentally jostling him in his haste to prepare the ship for setting sail, that the elf came to his senses and—reluctantly—turned away.

Varric and Hawke exchanged a look behind his back, but didn't speak out loud.

Fenris hadn't noticed the silent communication. He was looking around the deck of the ship, not really registering what was there, simply seeking a place that was quiet and out of the way where he could stand and… do what, exactly, he didn't know. He couldn't know. He couldn't fathom what was happening, what had happened, what would happen. He only knew…

He only knew… that, truthfully… he didn't know shit.

Some solid object found it's way to brace against his shoulder, and he relaxed against it as his thoughts sunk even deeper into their mire of despair.

Always before in his life—the life of Fenris, not Leto—ever since he had run away from Danarius, ever since he had stolen his freedom from his master, ever since he had been on his own and answered to no one but himself. Ever since then, he had had no direction, no supervision, no advice from a friend or family member to rely upon when difficult situations arose. And at that very moment, he genuinely could not imagine a more difficult situation: the love of his life, abused so badly, and by someone who had impersonated him, that the merest sight of him must instill within her the darkest anger and the bitterest disgust and the most insurmountable fear and an unendurable pain.

He should run. That's what he had done before, when things grew difficult. He ran. Oh, sure, he convinced himself that he was simply staying ahead of Danarius' hunters, or indulging his curiosity for what lay beyond the horizon, or following a lead that would result in employment with a new patron. But, to be brutally honest with himself—and he deserved to be the one suffering a bit of brutality for a change!—he had always been able to find an excuse to run.

He should run. Now. Before the gangplank was raised. Before the ship set sail. Before they left sight of land. A rogue waved rocked the ship, and he swayed with it, or told himself that he had swayed with it, that he was not shifting his stance before taking that first step, that he was not flexing his fingers in preparation of gripping the rail as he vaulted over it, that he was not estimating how deep the water would be on that side of the ship, or how far to the shore, or…

His machinations were interrupted, his inner prison cell broken into and expanded to include the outside world, when the heat from two other bodies was suddenly felt to either side of him. He knew who would be there, who would dare to approach him in his current state, but he could feel no gratitude for their timely intervention of his self-torture. He didn't speak—there were no words—but he did return to resting his aching shoulder and back once more against the outside of the aftercastle. And waited, waited and prayed and hoped that someone would come along with an answer or a piece of advise on what he should do or how he could fix matters. Until then, he could only stand there.

Varric cleared his throat as he came up beside Fenris. He probably shouldn't be doing this, was undoubtedly risking his life should the elf's current state of mind prove to be tetchy or violent, but he didn't want Fenris to think he was alone—he or Hrodwynn. The dwarf took up a stance next to him, close but not crowding, and stared out over the foredeck of the ship, watching the sailors finish setting sail, waiting in silence as well.

Hawke didn't want to be left standing alone. He approached on the other side, though far more cautiously than Varric. He had no idea what to do, what he could do, what he should do, or even if there was anything for him to do. However, he could follow Varric's lead, trusting the dwarf had more insight into this situation, undoubtedly due to his storytelling skills and people-watching pastime. Besides, Fenris hadn't killed either one of them yet for interrupting his brooding. So somewhat reassured, Hawke also stood and waited, in a very bored silence, for someone to make a move.

* * *

"And this is the captain's cabin," Isabela kicked open the door with her boot. Merril, who had been inside sitting on the single chair, gave a startled squeak and jumped to her feet, as if feeling guilty for having been caught in Isabela's cabin, not to mention using her chair. Upon seeing Hrodwynn, however, she quickly forgot her own discomfiture and started fussing over the girl.

"Oh! You found her. I was worried when you didn't come back right away. It was taking a bit longer than you said. 'Lo, Hrodwynn. I'm so glad you're safe. And wearing Hawke's new cloak. That was nice of him. You must have been chilled or something."

Hrodwynn lifted her head and gave the effusive mage a small, and tight, little smile. "'Lo, Merril."

"How's that leg?" Isabela asked, with only a teeniest bit of solicitousness that was out of character for her. "Think you can stand yet?"

Hrodwynn didn't want to answer, she didn't want to talk, she didn't want to deal with people right then. But she had to, and so she nodded, once, and began to pull away from Isabela. The lady pirate obliged, setting her gingerly on her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other prepared to catch her if she proved too unsteady. Hrodwynn, however, had endured enough embarrassment and humiliation for a lifetime; she was determined to regain a bit of her pride. She stubbornly kept her feet and, for good measure, took first one step, then another, from Isabela's side towards the chair Merril had just vacated. It wasn't that she felt like sitting; it was just that once having started, she needed a destination, and the chair proved a handy target.

"I suspect you'll want a bath," Isabela continued, her eyes narrowing with a bit of concern over Hrodwynn's lack of verbalization, while inwardly her chest swelled with pride over Hrodwynn's newly rediscovered strength.

"Oo, a bath would be lovely, wouldn't it? With soaps and scented oils. And bubbles! Do you think, Isabela, that we could make bubbles for her? Loads of them. And hot water, too, but not too hot. Just hot enough to let you get a nice long soak and work all that grime and muck out of your hair." Merril tsked her tongue as she hovered over Hrodwynn. "Ugh, what a mess. But don't you worry. One good soak and you'll be clean again. Well, maybe a rinse or two afters, for good measure. But we'll get you clean, never worry about that."

"I'll have someone bring in the tub and the water," Isabela agreed, "After we set sail. Merril, you'll see to it, won't you, that she has everything she needs? To feel like herself, again?"

There was some sort of undertone to Isabela's voice, but if Merril heard it, she gave no sign. "Of course," she absently peeped, her main focus on the comb in her hand and working on breaking loose some of the larger chunks of, erm, detritus.

"There's a chest over there," Isabela nodded her chin off to the side, and both the other women took note of its location. "It used to belong to the last captain of this ship. I already took out anything of value and stowed it in a more secure location. But there are some clothes and the like still inside. Help yourself to whatever you'd like."

"Oh, we will, thanks," Merril readily answered for both of them, and just as readily dismissed the other woman. "Now, the bath's only the first step. You'll be wanting clean clothes next, that will feel so nice. And then we'll have a nice hot meal, nothing too heavy, but something warm and filling, like a stew with biscuits drowning in gravy. And for afters…"

Isabela didn't hear any more of Merril's plans, closing the cabin door to leave the two women alone. She gave a silent sigh before turning to head up on deck, thankful that Merril—for once—had taken the hint. After only two steps she paused to tap a nail against a tooth and wonder if maybe Merril hadn't caught the hint after all; it was always a bit difficult to follow the path of the flighty elf's thoughts. Yet Merril must have realized that Isabela wanted her to talk with Hrodwynn, to keep her occupied, to help her get cleaned up, to distract her with chatter and prattle and silliness. Then again, perhaps Merril hadn't understood her clue about making Hrodwynn feel like herself again, but was simply Merril being Merril. Isabela let go of the mental conundrum and started forward again. Regardless of whether or not Merril had caught on, she was doing and acting exactly the way Hrodwynn needed her to, so Isabela left them to it.

After seeing to it that the bath would be delivered as promised, she set her sights on Fenris. Not a pleasant task, but then again, none of this was pleasant… well, alright, may be the treasure was a bit pleasant, she allowed, a smirk tugging at her lips as she thought about it. But what really mattered were the two star-crossed lovers; their current situation was anything but pleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. And knowing Fenris as she did, or Hrodwynn for that matter, Isabela also knew they'd need someone to help steer them through the coming storm. That was something she could do—perhaps only she could do.

She hated it. She always hated it when men took advantage of women. When masters took advantage of their slaves. When the strong took advantage of the weak, the rich of the poor, the healers of the sick. It was her own personal—and private—quest to right those wrongs, to set the two opposites on even footing, or to even turn the tables when possible. She especially enjoyed effectuating the revenge herself when no one else could. But she hadn't been able to do any of that this time. SHE hadn't been able to exact retribution for Hrodwynn's dishonor, and the frustration felt like a sort of metaphorical cock-block, leaving her itchy and more than a bit snippy. Never mind that the arse who had abused Hrodwynn was dead, blown to a dust that clung to their skin like a sticky, staticky soot—Isabela hadn't been allowed to take her own shot at making him pay, so she was pettish.

She was fully into this pouty and sulky state by the time she stalked out onto the deck of her ship. If she took a moment to notice, she would have been pleased with the way her crew was readying the ship for sail, but that would also have spoiled her mood. Instead she focused on the three men slouching idly across the front of the aftercastle that held the captain's and officers' quarters, loitering like three petulant boys who'd been told to stop playing and go home. Her booted footfalls echoing and shuddering through the boards alerted them to her approaching presence, Varric and Hawke guiltily coming to attention, though Fenris continued to impersonate a statue. Yes, she was going to have her hands full, getting those two love birds back on track.

"Alright," she sighed angrily, a feat that briefly impressed Varric, and posed with her arms crossed beneath her bosom and one hip cocked. "Alright, all three of you, stop that right now."

There was a moment of silence as two pairs of eyes blinked at her. "Stop what?" Hawke asked, bewildered, thinking that they had done nothing other than standing around and waiting.

"Shut up!" she silenced him, her eyes flashing hard like twin daggers in the sunlight. "I'm not finished talking yet. She doesn't need this, you know. She doesn't need any of this."

"Any of… what… exactly?" Varric tremulously took his turn at asking for clarification.

"Any of your acting," she answered, removing one hand to flap at them, "Your… moping and… brooding. You are walking on eggshells around her, trying to imagine what she's feeling, what she's thinking, what she needs or doesn't need, what she wants or doesn't want, what might set her off or remind her of what happened or of who did this or… any of the sort!"

"We're not…" Hawke's futile denial died on his lips, cut off by Isabela's skeptic expression and the fact that he, at least, had been doing exactly what she was accusing them of doing.

"Yes, you are. And I'm telling you right now: stop it!" She stepped closer, nose-to-nose with Hawke while managing somehow to keep Varric in her glare along with the Fenris' profile. "Hrodwynn was raped. Repeatedly, I'm guessing. And I'm also guessing it was by this 'other Fenris' you told me about, the man who also had lyrium markings and could phase through matter. The man you blew into dust before I could get my hands on him," she aimed this last bit at Fenris, who continued to show her his cheek. "And now you're all thinking about this 'other Fenris,' and what he did to Button, and how she's going to react, and what you should do or not do to make things easier for her. Well, guess what, gentlemen: it doesn't matter what the fuck you do!"

Hawke's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Varric tried to take a half-step back before he remembered there was a wall behind him. But the most dramatic reaction came from Fenris—a single swallow.

"It's already happened," Isabela bored on relentlessly. "Hrodwynn was raped. Nothing can change that. It's done, in the past, a fait accompli." She stepped closer, moving past the other two to reach out and touch Fenris' shoulder, mindful of his markings and spiky armor, her voice growing as soft as her touch. "So accept it. You want to know what you can do to help her? Accept it. Yes, it happened. Yes, it was ugly and evil and cruel and it's going to have lingering effects for a time. Yes, things will randomly remind her of it. And yes, she will grow upset." Her fingers squeezed just a little bit, "And yes, she will hurt and she will cry. And she will get mad and she will yell. And she will grow scared and she will scream. Let her. She needs that, Fenris, she needs to face it and accept it and feel it. Then, once she realizes that it's a part of her, that it will always be a part of her, but only one part of her, one small part of her whole self—then she can move on. Let her feel."

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, a mere fraction of a degree, the minimal gesture flooded with all his guilt and pain. "It's more than what he did to her that haunts the two of us. Matthias made himself look like me. Not just the lyrium markings and the armor, but he died his hair to match mine. He called himself by my name. Now every time I invoke my lyrium… every time she looks at me… she can't even speak my name without…"

"Without feeling," Isabela finished for him, calmly and matter-of-factly. "She will feel, Fenris. She'll be reminded of this Matthias and what he did to her and she will feel. And she will continue to feel more emotions than can be defined and categorized. But there are other things she could be feeling, worse things, like suspicions and doubts and worries. Acting oddly around her will only reinforce these other, negative impressions that things have changed, that perhaps things have changed so much that it can never be right once more between the two of you." Her other hand gripped his other shoulder, almost but not quite giving him a little shake. "But don't give in to it. Don't let the doubt get a foothold. Fight, Fenris; fight for the woman you love. Act as normal as you can. Make small talk. Treat her like always. Don't let her suspect that anything has changed between the two of you."

"Ah, you might want to rephrase that," Varric said drolly, "Considering how for years he used to make her think he hated her."

Isabela smirked, letting go of Fenris but not leaving him alone, "Well, one or two of your old shouting matches might not be out of order, if done in moderation, just to let off a bit of steam now and again. But I was referring to those sappy, timid displays of affection, like how you'd touch her elbow with only your fingertips, as if she were made of porcelain or fine crystal."

It was a quip, a gentle one, done out of friendship and compassion, but it unknowingly held a potent barb. He remembered the reasons why he had touch her so timidly, how he was so afraid of stirring up those suppressed and overwhelming feelings within his self that he dared only show her the most minimal physical affection. Now the tables would be turned, now she would be the one with the overwhelming feelings, now she would be the one fearing the signs of affection and what it might do to her.

Fenris' gauntleted fist clenched so tightly the talons threatened to leave gouges in his own flesh. Fight, Isabela had said, fight for Hrodwynn. But this was not a normal fight. He would be up against, well, against nothing—nothing physical, at any rate. Not a battle-hardened knight nor a studied mage nor even an unpredictable wild creature. What he was about to face had no body to pierce, left no footprint to track, gave off no scent to follow.

Yet he was going to fight, of that he was certain: he would fight for his love, for their love, even if what he had to fight against held no form and carried no weapon and felt no wounds. He would never give up on Hrodwynn, even if it took them years to move past this, even if they could never move past this, because she had already fought this battle. She had already fought for—and won!—his love. So he had no other choice but to fight…

Fenris took a breath, lifting his chin and opening his eyes, and endeavored to respond in kind to Isabela's jibe. "That's because I wear gauntlets; I always have to be careful of the talons. Case in point." He lifted his hand, showing the pricks of red on his palm.

Isabela rolled her eyes. It was a feeble, though somewhat dark, attempt at humor, but the fact that he made the attempt was what mattered. She dared to allow herself to begin feeling slightly encouraged for the two lovers.

Then Varric took up the challenge, "Don't forget how you're always hovering next to her, real close. It's as if you're hoping she'll turn around too quickly and your lips can 'accidentally' kiss hers."

"I have no such intentions when I stand so close to her," the elf sniffed, "I am merely offering her the protection of my presence. Besides, I happen to find lewd and public displays of affection distasteful. Though I assure you, Hrodwynn and I have kissed. Thoroughly. Passionately, even. In private."

Before Varric could pounce on that juicy little tidbit, Hawke finally caught on and added, "Don't forget those puppy eyes. Honestly, every time her back is turned, you stare after her with such longing, such sweetness it's sickening. Bleh. I want to vomit whenever I see it. In fact, I might vomit right now, simply imagining it." He placed his hand in front of his mouth, long fingers acting as a shield before his lips. "Ew."

There was a huff from the elf, not an actual laugh, but a harsh exhale of air from his lungs that might have been, under other circumstances, the prelude to a mild chuckle. "I've said it before, but I won't say it again: There. Are. No. Puppy. Eyes."

The door to the aftercastle opened, and Fenris' eyes automatically shifted to look there, to define the motion and assess the situation. Seeing as it was not Hrodwynn but a sailor coming out of the doorway, he relaxed.

Varric and Hawke exchanged knowing smirks, the dwarf letting go with a chuckle that rumbled deep inside his gut. "You were saying…?"

Beneath Fenris' swarthy skin tone, a slight blush of pink flushed the tops of his cheeks. But he didn't comment. Instead his olive-green eyes flashed at Varric, challenging him to continue.

Hawke's hand went from hiding his pretend vomiting, to hiding an actual smile. Isabela was a little more practiced at concealing her reactions, her face a perfect reflection of matronly tolerance as she continued. "If you boys will excuse me, now that matters are back on course here, I have to go pirate, erm, I mean, pilot my ship. Gentlemen."

"Milady Pirate," Varric acknowledged, adding a very low mock bow at the end. He watched appreciatively as she sauntered off to command her crew, her hips swaying in rhythm to the waves. "Ah, I don't like it when she gets mad at us and leaves, but I do like to watch. So," he turned back to the others, one not interested in women and one only interested in a particular woman, "What's next? Grab a bit of something to eat?"

"I was thinking…" Fenris began, unsure of his intended action, but remembering Isabela's advice to do what would be normal, and what he had in mind was very normal—and very necessary—to his nature. "I was thinking I'd check in on Hrodwynn, see how she was doing." He didn't want to, he thought he probably shouldn't have, but he couldn't stop himself. He turned and looked at the other two, hoping to see approval and agreement in their faces. What he saw instead was skepticism, with a little bit of disgust. "What? Isabela said we should act normal, and wouldn't it be very normal of me to want to see her? See that she's alright? Talk with her and…"

"I'm not arguing that," Hawke held up his hand, not really wanting to know what Fenris might intend. He supposed that, no, they wouldn't be doing anything of THAT nature, but he didn't even want the slightest mention of the thought. "It's only that you're still covered in essence of, what was his name, Matthias? Don't you think it might be prudent to, oh, I don't know, take a bath? Clean your armor? At least knock the 'dust' out of your hair?"

Fenris paused, not sure if Hawke was kidding or serious. But the look on Varric's face made him reconsider. He dropped his gaze, tucking in his chin as he looked down at himself. He did look a bit dusty, and though he wiped at the grime that was clinging to his skin and armor, it did not come off easily. "Perhaps you're right. But it's going to take hours to clean my armor properly."

"We'll do that for you, won't we, Hawke." It wasn't an offer, but a command, from Varric. "Why don't you and Hawke find a place to wash up, and I'll scrounge around with the crew and see if there isn't a spare tunic or something for you to wear for your date with Button?"

"Er, we will?" Hawke hummed, but when Varric's elbow dug into his hip, he changed his tone. "I mean, come along, Fenris, I think there's a water closet or something this way, next to our cabins."

"I, ah, appreciate the offer, Varric," he began, even as Hawke started pulling him away, hand on his upper arm, "But it won't work. I have to wear my armor. All the time."

"Why's that?"

"Because if I were to invoke my lyrium, while wearing anything besides my armor, the markings would show. Right through the fabric. And, of course, there's the whole part where the clothing won't phase with me."

"Really?" the dwarf's eyes lit up, his little mind whirring with the possibilities. "That's… kinda cool, actually."

"Just, agh," Hawke made a disgusting noise, "Just find him something to wear. And you," he shook a finger beneath Fenris' nose, "No phasing."

Isabela was above them, approaching the wheel that was housed on top of the aftercastle. She was still close enough to hear the exchange, the typical usual banter between the three, and felt another knot of tension ease from between her shoulder blades. Normal was good. Normal was exactly what Hrodwynn would need right then, from all of them, as much normal as they could manage. That, and some time, would do Hrodwynn more good than a dozen healing potions. Isabela felt encouraged as she took the wheel, so encouraged that she started whistling through her teeth a little shanty, something light and energetic and peppy. Very soon her crew around her began to pick up the tune, and by the time the sails had caught the wind and they were underway, the whole deck was in full voice, singing about the wind and the sea and the freedom and the joy of life.

* * *

The tunic itched.

Fenris resisted the fifteenth impulse to rub at the collar, or to pull it away, or to tear off the sleeves—venhedis, but he wanted to strip! Not that he would have admitted this to Varric, but every lyrium tattoo the borrowed clothing touched was alive with fire. He did have some relief wherever the tunic billowed out, leaving most of the irritation at his shoulders. The leggings, too, were loose and short, ending just below his knees, a colorful though tasteless pattern of pink and orange stripes. Bleh, he through to himself, looking down at his slapped-together outfit; he looked like a jester.

He wanted his armor. Hawke had been adamant, once he'd seen the state of it, about giving it a thorough cleaning and had sent Fenris on his way to see Hrodwynn while he worked on it. He supposed it was for the best; he really didn't want to have bits of 'Matthias dust' ruining his armor, filling up the creases, mucking up the buckles, clinging to the straps. He also didn't want Hrodwynn to see—however minutely or accidentally—any lingering bits of the bastard; the two of them were going to have enough to deal with already.

But damn it his skin itched!

He lifted his hand and hesitated for a moment, unsure of where he would reach, but instead of tugging at the fabric he rapped his knuckles against the door of the captain's cabin.

He heard it, like the squeak of a mouse, a startled "oh!" that popped out before the source could control it. There was a bit of shuffling inside the cabin, then total silence. He could only wait for a count of ten before he had to know what was wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck standing so straight, he could feel them pushing the collar of the tunic off of his skin. His hand turned the latch, the door swing inward on the roll of the waves, and he quickly followed after.

The interior was lit softly, the lanterns swinging from the ceiling turned down in consideration of eyes that had grown too used to darkness. In the middle of the room was a small copper tub, barely knee height but larger than the one he had used to get cleaned up. There was an empty bucket of what must have held rinse water, several used towels puddled and discarded on the floor not too far from Hawke's new and permanently stained cloak, and an open chest with clothing strewn and draped about it. On a low table next to a chair there were several handkerchiefs of various colors piled up next to a comb and scissors. Bits of red hair, almost dull and brown in the muted light, lay fallen like a dusting of snow about the chair. A tray sat on the bed, a bowl of stew covered with a napkin and a pair of fresh baked rolls beside it, all of the food steaming the air it was so freshly served.

But there was no Hrodwynn.

He took a bold step further into the cabin to come up next to the bed and picked up the rolls in his hand, soft and warm. The door swung partway closed on the swell of another wave, and he heard the startled sound again coming from the corner behind him. He spun, ready for any trouble, his free hand curved like a talon, half a heartbeat away from invoking his lyrium.

"Oh, Fenris," Merril chirruped, "I'm so sorry. I don't know. I honestly don't know."

"Don't know what?" he pushed for clarification, barely able to relax his hands and keep from crushing the rolls, much less control his temper. After everything that had happened, the very last thing he wanted to deal with right then was a blood mage—an openly practicing, unrepentant, flagrant blood mage.

"That's just it; how can I tell you, if I don't know."

"Merril," he growled, his voice made darker and more gravely due to his stress and exhaustion and now frustration. "Start at the beginning, with what you do know. Isabela said she left Hrodwynn with you, to get cleaned up."

"Oh, yes, she did. And we did, I mean, I helped Hrodwynn into the tub. She wanted to do it herself, but she was so unsteady on her feet, that I was afraid to leave her alone. But we managed that well enough, and we found something for her to wear," she gestured unnecessarily at the chest. "Then we, well, I, really, I was the one who did it, she certainly couldn't have done it herself, but we went to work on her hair. Poor thing," she paused to sniff, "There were chunks missing. Ripped out. In little tufts and spots all over her scalp. Some of it looked like it was growing back already, thank the gods, but I wanted to do something nice for her, to make her feel better about her hair, until it was full again. So I gave her a trim," she gestured to the scissors, "Evened it up a bit. Not too much—I know she likes her hair short, but not shaved certainly, so I just cut off what seemed overly long to me, and brushed it about trying to cover the bare spots, but there were too many. So we picked a scarf for her to wear. She looked so much like Isabela; they could be sisters," Merril paused to reflect on the memory. "It was a little strange, though. She agreed with me, how she and Isabela looked alike, but I don't think she even once glanced at her reflection in the mirror."

Fenris hadn't wanted the whole story, but Merril was on a roll, so he muttered, "I'm sure she peeked when you weren't looking. What happened next, after you fixed her hair?"

"Right, well, we'd gotten her cleaned up, and looking nice, so I asked her if she was hungry for anything. And she said she was, so I told her I would find her something to eat. I said I would be right back. And I was. I promise you, Fenris, I just popped over to the galley and right back! But…" Merril looked away, unsure of what to say, or how to tell him.

"But she wasn't here when you returned, was she."

It wasn't a question, but Merril nodded. "I remember, she asked me, as I was leaving, if I would please not lock the door. I thought it an odd request, asking me to leave the door unlocked, because she knows how to pick locks, doesn't she. But I told her, the door only locks from the inside, it would be entirely up to her whether or not to lock it. She smiled at that, and I thought it was a good thing that she smiled, so I smiled back and left to get her somewhat to eat. Only when I got back…"

He nodded. "It's alright, Merril."

"I didn't mean to lose her, don't know how I did manage it, but I'll find her, Fenris, I promise…"

"It's alright!" he repeated, a little too forcefully, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with hysterics, and the harsh command stopped Merril before she could get started. She hiccoughed into silence, a hand over her mouth to help with that, and stared at him with wide eyes filling up with tears. He sighed, not so much feeling remorseful as simply tired, and turned away. "It's alright, Merril," he tried yet again, this time a bit more softly, attempting to ease the other elf's guilt. There certainly was enough guilt to go around for everyone, but he didn't want to share. It helped not to look at her. He busied himself with wrapping the rolls safely in the napkin, wrinkling his nose at the contents of the stew, as he continued, "Hrodwynn probably just wanted a breath of fresh air. She has been cooped up in a dungeon for the past several weeks. Undoubtedly she got bored, waiting for you to come back, and stepped out for a moment or two, just to clear her head." He leaned back from the bed and faced the door, "Don't worry about it; I'll find her."

He tried, he honestly tried to smile, setting his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner, but the only reward for his efforts was a timid flinch and shudder. He quickly dropped his hand away and took his first step towards the door.

"Fenris, you're mad at me, aren't you? You always are."

He stopped, twisting his neck just far enough that he would have been able to see Merril bouncing anxiously from foot to foot—if he had bothered to look. "I am not." He managed another single step before she stopped him again.

"Where is she, do you think?"

He couldn't bring himself to even turn his head this time. He needed to get out of there, he needed to find Hrodwynn, and Merril's incessant need for forgiveness and reassurance made his teeth ache. That, or he was grinding them too hard. He unclenched his jaw and answered, "Not too far, I shouldn't think. We are on a ship, after all; not too many places for her to go."

He made it to the doorway this time before she piped out one last question, "Could she have fallen overboard?"

"No," he answered, not bothering to break his stride, "There are too many sailors on deck. Someone would have seen her and called out an alarm. She's on board, Merril, safe and sound, and I'll find her."

"Oh, I do hope so…"

Her last words were muffled by the distance and the blood pounding in his ears.

Fasta vass, Merril had a point. He didn't want to think about it, but it was a very distinct possibility, if Hrodwynn was feeling trapped and claustrophobic and had tried to escape the ship, only to jump overboard into the icy and uncaring waters of the sea… No! That had not happened. She was still here, on board somewhere, quiet and safe and…

Yes, that was it. She had been imprisoned in a windowless dungeon for weeks, dark and cramped and silent. That's probably the type of place he would find her, something similar to what she had grown familiar with, some sort of enclosed cubby or small cabin or…

He almost snapped his fingers, suddenly figuring it out, the answer so obvious that finding her would seem an afterthought. His pace quickened as he started for the very bowels of the ship and nearly yanked the door off it's hinges as he entered the main cargo hold.

As he suspected, there was very little light. It was already evening outside, and the only source of light was the grated opening high overhead. Distantly he could hear sailors calling out to each other, see their shadows pass over the squares of darkening sky, but otherwise their movements, their existence, did not intrude this far deep into the belly of the vessel. He dropped his gaze from the ceiling—Hrodwynn would be as far away from that as possible—and scanned the interior.

It was a mess, a jumble of crates, chests, bags and cases, anything that could be used to carry items, tossed about willy-nilly without a care for ballast or the shifting that might be caused by the force of the waves. He sniffed, knowing Isabela would have a fit when she saw this, but left that mess for her to clean up. He had his own agenda, his own purpose for being there, and to accomplish that, he would have to find a way to search the whole hold. Phasing was right out, even if he had been wearing his armor, as Hrodwynn had already expressed an aversion towards seeing him glow—damn Matthias and damn him again! Fenris was going to have to do this the hard way, and he was fairly sure he would need a better vantage point than the doorway.

It was mostly silent. There was the odd sound of something alive, scurrying in the darkness, like a small rodent or a large insect. The creaking of timbers was a different sound from the popping of sap on distant torches. An occasional voice cried out, so distant and muffled that it was hard to tell if the sound was one of fear, or pain, or even joviality.

The smells were a bit odd too, a lot more wooden, though not the carefree and sun-warmed wood of open forests. There was damp cloyingness too, which was nothing new, but this damp was overrun with a salty tang that seemed to settle on the area like a film. It permeated the nostrils and all but overrode every other smell—other than that of wood.

The air felt warm, nothing like the coolness of being under earth, more like the stuffiness of being locked inside a sweat box, or a coffin. And everything near at hand, every reachable surface, was wooden or metal or fabric, not the cold and heartless stone she had become used to.

Hrodwynn opened her eyes but it was too dark; she couldn't see much more than she had with her other senses. She sat on her haunches with her back braced against a crate, a row of wooden crates stretching out before her on one side. The other side of the narrow walkway was built with messily stacked satchels and odd bits of purloined treasure, one of which had shifted and partway fallen free. It lay mostly stretched out, its long pleated body dangling towards the floor. The bottom end held a row of black and white keys, swaying with the rocking of the ship, and creating an airy bemoaning with each swing. What value the contraption held, or what one could do with such a device, she had no idea, and she wondered which of Isabela's crew had decided to plunder the odd looking, bellows-like contraption.

A new sound reached her ears, a heavy plopping, like a pair of bare feet slapping the floor after dropping from a respectable height. The next moment, a shadow fell across the mouth of the tunnel, long and lean. She didn't smile, but the corner of her mouth did twitch—just a little. Of course he would seek her out.

"'lo, F…f…"

It might have been an attempt to say his name, but the sound died to a sigh before it could pass her lips.

"Hello, Hrodwynn," he answered, apparently ignoring her slip, or inability, or just plain awkwardness. Whatever he sensed from her, he refused to give it a name, instead kneeling down just beyond the end of the makeshift hallway. "I've brought some rolls. Are you hungry?" He pulled out a napkin and unfolded it, setting it down on the floor. Then he moved back, away from the food, and sat down against a crate to wait, as if trying to tempt a kitten out of hiding.

It was a silly analogy, really, and she had no idea why it had popped in her head, she wasn't hiding like a frightened little kitten, after all, and she was about to open her mouth and tell him so, when her stomach chose that moment to make a rather opinionated gurgle.

She snapped her lips closed, feeling the heat flood her cheeks, more so when a nervous sort of sound burst from her chest. It wasn't laughter, it wasn't even a giggle, more of a skittish bubble of clumsy sound that staggered out of her to plop onto the floor somewhere between herself and the rolls.

Yes, she was nervous.

Yes, she had been hiding like a frightened kitten.

And, yes, she was very definitely hungry.

"Thanks," she mumbled, ducking her head, staring at her hands, even as she crawled down the narrow pass and emerged from her cubbyhole. She cradled one of the rolls in her twisted right hand, and picked at it with the fingertips of her left hand. The bread was warm, the crust thin and easily giving way to the soft dough inside.

"One usually doesn't get bread onboard a ship; the dough is too time-consuming, making biscuits and other quick breads the standard fare. However, the cook must have grown bored while the rest of us were away, and busied himself with kneading and shaping and baking."

Hrodwynn savored the homemade taste, feeling her mouth water around it. Briefly an image popped in her mind, and she found herself thinking of the maggot-ridden, stale, moldy bread she had been subsiding on for the past several weeks…

Mentally she slapped herself. This was nothing like what she had been eating. This bread was good. Fresh. Healthy. And halfway through the first roll, she was already beginning to fill up. "Aren't you having any?"

"I, er, brought these from your tray, the one Merril fetched for you." If he noticed the shameful reddening on her cheeks returning, he didn't make mention of it. Nor did he scold her for leaving Merril in the lurch or escaping the cabin or running off to hide or making everyone worry. His tone was mellow and conversational as he continued, "There was some stew as well, but that wasn't worth bringing with."

"Oh?" she made a slightly curious sound, but still did not look up from her hands.

"Yes, quite. I think I mentioned that the cook had a bit too much time on his hands? Apparently, he took to fishing while he was waiting for his dough to rise. And, apparently, he's quite good at fishing, or catching rather."

She could imagine the shudder she heard in his voice, and though she knew exactly what he meant, she had to confirm, "Fish stew."

The half-gagging sound was her only answer.

"Then you better have the other roll," she offered again, "Here."

Her hand, her good hand, reached out to pick up the second roll, and she extended it towards him. She hadn't intended to, but her gaze lifted far enough to see him, to see his leg at any rate, and the ugly striped pants he wore. The strange clothing caught her off guard, having rarely seen him anything but his armor, and she had to look further, to the billowy blouse that draped around his narrow frame. The clothing was odd on him, strange, even alien, and more than enough to break through her timid reluctance. Then her eyes flickered up to his face.

He was staring at her. He was staring with olive-green eyes, muted in the dark, but seeming to glow with a life of their own, to pulse with the warmth of a half-vowed promise, and yet to wait there patiently to be whatever she needed him to be.

Words burst from her once more, nervously, with a touch of panic or of trying to hold something else at bay, "You don't look yourself." Which was entirely true, and perhaps a bit more helpful than she wanted to admit. If he didn't look like Fenris, or like the 'false Fenris,' she could almost pretend he—they—the Fenrises—were someone else.

"Neither do you," he almost smiled as he returned the sally.

"I, um, well, no," she dropped the roll onto his lap and reached for the dark green scarf covering her ruined scalp. She wanted to pull it down over her face, but instead settled for returning to her roll. "Merril, that is, we decided, yes, we thought it might look better, I mean, the potions are working and all, my scalp is healing and my hair will grow back, but potions won't make my hair grow any faster, so until it does…" She picked up another morsel and shoved it in her mouth, mostly to stop the inane chatter falling from her lips. Bloody shite, why couldn't she stop talking?!

"Don't get me wrong, you look quite fetching in the scarf," he tilted his head, possibly trying to peek at her face, she wasn't sure. "Like a lady pirate."

"Merril said I looked like Isabela's sister."

"Yes, you do," he said so matter-of-factly, she could almost believe him.

"We're not, sisters, I mean, we look nothing alike, she's all tan and tits, and I'm so pale and…"

"I meant in spirit," he clarified, cupping his hand over her wrist, the touch so light she more felt the heat from his body than the callouses of his skin. "The two of you are very much alike, indomitable wills, strong opinions, and an unending endurance. Neither one of you has it in her to surrender, no matter the odds, no matter the cost, you continue to fight." He picked at his own roll, but didn't take the bite until he finished speaking, "That's one of the things I love about you; you never give up fighting."

He prayed, merciful Maker how he prayed, that this was true and she hadn't given up fighting. And this evening, the normally uncommunicative deity was listening.

"I couldn't, Fen," she sniffed, feeling her heart break, feeling her eyes burn with tears, feeling the words ram their way past the blockage in her chest. "I couldn't help it; I couldn't stop fighting. Even after what Laconus said to me, I couldn't do it. Laconus was the guard who had the task of keeping me alive, of making sure HE didn't kill me—He could do whatever he wanted to me, but not that. And Laconus told me," she didn't even pause as she rubbed at her nose with the sleeve of her tunic, "He told me how fighting would only make matters worse, how much the other one enjoyed it when the girls fought back. Laconus said that I should just lie passive and then he'd lose interest in me, and he wouldn't hurt me as much. But I couldn't do it. I had to fight him. Every time. Even knowing how much it would hurt, how close HE would come to killing me, how it would end the same anyway whether I fought or not, I had to. Like you said, it just isn't in me to give up."

He'd heard all this already, knew the basics at least, but if she needed to talk about it, if she needed to get it out of her system, then he'd listen—it would be his just penance. "Matthias was like that," he admitted, not knowing if he was helping her heal or fueling the flames, but he continued, "He'd always been like that. Even when we were younger, Matthias always enjoyed making others bleed, making them afraid of him. He enjoyed it a little too much."

"When… when you were younger…?" she asked, wonderingly, curiously, even slightly desperately as if eagerly seizing on another topic of conversation. "Do you mean… you… you remember… him…?"

"I remember," Fenris answered simply, yet profoundly.

Again, her world was upended, the floor becoming the ceiling, fact becoming fiction and vice versa. "…how…"

Fenris didn't want to talk about his problems right at that moment, but he supposed he shouldn't try to hide it from her. It was a goal they had been working on for several years now. "It was Varania. When she arrived in Kirkwall… when I saw her… it all… started… to come back. Not all at once, of course, but I found if I thought about something, or saw or heard something that reminded me of something, it could trigger a memory of before, a memory of Leto's."

"Leto?" She popped the last crumb into her mouth.

"That was my name, before. But it's strange," he shifted, feeling itchy once more, but this time it wasn't from the tunic or the lyrium, but from within. "I can remember Leto, what he liked to do for fun, that he loved apples but hated blueberries," he lifted his eyes to hers, to see her FINALLY looking at him, staring straight at him, with no aversion or disgust or fear. She was seeing him, Fenris, not the 'fake Fenris'/Matthias. "But I, erm, I don't feel like, I mean," he paused to clear his throat and take moment to gather his thoughts, to let himself feel hope that Hrodwynn was coming back to him, before returning to his explanation. "I'm not Leto, not any more, probably never again. I can remember him, yes, I remember his dreams and his hopes and his fears. But he is not me. Leto is just…" he shrugged, "…like a character in one of those books Varric used to have us read. He's another person. Someone I am very familiar with, certainly, but not me. Too much has happened, too much has changed for me to ever be Leto again. But I do remember."

Whether Hrodwynn at long last realized she was staring at him, or whether she started to feel jealousy over his memory returning while her's continued to remain veiled, he wasn't sure. But she dropped her gaze once more to her hands. He tried not to fee disappointment, he hadn't expected her to be able to look at him all tonight. But she had, and she had seen him, Fenris, not Matthias.

It was a start. A baby step to be sure, but a start.

"Did, um," she gave her lower lip a brief nip before stealing a quick peek at him, "Did Leto like fish stew?"

"I, ah, never thought, really, I…" he mumbled, the words triggering memories of various dishes, foods Leto liked or disliked, "You know, I don't know; I don't think that he'd ever tried fish stew."

She smiled, or it might have been the playing of a shadow in the moonlight coming from above. "Well, I just thought, it would be weird, wouldn't it, if Leto liked something but you don't. Just curious. I… Maker's breath, but it's weird calling you by another name, I mean, that you had been this Leto person, but you're not now…"

"Any stranger than another wanting to call himself by my name?" He leaned forwards, not to crowd her, but to be nearer to her. "It's only a name, Hrodwynn. A certain set of sounds making syllables that we associate with a person or thing or act. Nothing more. You can name me, Amatus, you can call me Fenris and it will not conjure any demons to destroy your soul. Neither will naming him Matthias."

She swallowed, her lips pursed together, fighting to keep the sounds within, but knowing they would come out eventually.

Fighting. Blessed Andraste, how much fighting had she been doing this past month? How much more did she have to do? Could she ever rest, or would she be forever fighting this memory, this taint, this fear?

Fight. That was her greatest problem, and her greatest source of strength. It wasn't in her to give up. She would fight, and she would keep fighting long after it was good for her. "Fen," she began, almost in a choking sob, spittle threatening to pour out with her tears, "Fen-n-n-n-n-ris!"

She had been right; once she started, the pain and fear and rage and impotence and humiliation all came pouring out of her. She wept, forcefully, her muscles tensing and twisting her body out of control. Before she could strike the floor, however, arms were around her, strong and lean and gentle and compassionate, cradling her like fine crystal, like a broken favorite toy, like a long-lost treasure. She wept, unable to stop, unable to fight it any longer, and in her surrender she realized: she hadn't been fighting against the hurt; she had been fighting against the healing. In surrendering, she found strength. In surrendering, she found a balm. In surrendering, she began to let go of all the angst and torment.

Surrendering was her most momentous victory.

Fenris fought against his own surrender even longer, though perhaps not, as he'd been battling it only for a few hours where she had been battling it for weeks. But he, too, at long last quit struggling. He shed a fair amount of his own tears, losing them in the fabric of her borrowed scarf as her tears soaked his tunic. His grief shook his shoulders even as she trembled within his arms. They clung to each other and shared their mutual pain, not that their embrace was intimate—certainly not in that nature—but they were still close, intimate on a level that wasn't physical, wasn't emotional, wasn't definable. It merely was.

Together, in this emphatic commune, they spent the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, my dears, so very, very, very sorry for my long absence. I cannot even begin to tell you all that has been happening to me these past several months. I've always thought: Courage is not the lack of having fears, but the act of doing what must be done in the face of those fears. And I… I am a coward.
> 
> I have come face-to-face with several of my deepest, darkest, most secretive fears. That I have survived these encounters is obvious, but it wasn't without earning my own scars. Scars, and emotions, which have held me in a suspension of writer's block, far too afraid of putting words on the page lest these overwhelming emotions take over and leave me shaken and broken and blubbering.
> 
> It took more than two months before I could even look at a story, much less tap into my muse and open up that Pandora's box of emotion within me that I feared would have no bottom and which might lead to me expelling far too much of my self, my emotions, into the aforementioned words.
> 
> But writing is cathartic for me. Therapeutic. Even as necessary as air and food and water on occasion. And though it pained me to write, I discovered a strength inside me, an ability to fight and overcome my fears… and I know I have finally started to heal.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for your patience with me, for your reviews, for simply reading my stories and being there and reminding me that I'm not alone. I know I am stronger for having survived, but I am even stronger for having you. *HUGS*


End file.
